


Thistle

by merrythoughts, ReallyMissCoffee



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Daddy Kink, Dark Will Graham, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Feminization, Happy Ending, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Possessive Behavior, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Reconciliation, Roleplay Logs, Rough Sex, Safewords, Switching, Touch-Starved, eventually, unhealthy everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-08-21 09:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 111,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16574090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/pseuds/ReallyMissCoffee
Summary: He had wanted this, after all, wanted Will to reach his potential, and to see him in his own realm is breathtaking. He is a sleek, feral predator, growing with ferocity and strength as Hannibal drags prey back for him to whet his appetite. Will learns, but he isn't Hannibal. Hannibal had never wanted a clone, but a partner. An equal. A friend. Someone to share the darkness within.One out of four isn't bad.[Darker post-fall story; a journey of eventual reconciliation between Hannibal and Will.]





	1. Stronger

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello there! Welcome to the beginning of this party. We started this early spring '18 but didn't want to post it until we were close to having it finished. I finally got the go-ahead from ReallyMissCoffee, so here we are. 
> 
> **Disclaimer** : This is another merrythoughts & ReallyMissCoffee production. In case you don't know us, just a heads up: this is written first and foremost as an alternating roleplay between us which doesn't necessarily translate smoothly into an easily digestible or traditional fic format. At times we can be pretentious, repetitive and annoyingly wordy, but we're not going to change so please forgo any "constructive criticism" regarding the format. We are choosing to share our work and if you like it, you like it, if not, press the back button and try something else as we have no interest in attempting to fic-ify our stories. 
> 
> Also, a warning: This is an emotional roller-coaster type of story. While it _will_ have a "happy ending," there's not a lot of light happiness to be found within the chapters. Please don't read if you're feeling down/vulnerable etc. A lot here is problematic/unhealthy, but c'mon, have you seen the show Hannibal? We tried to keep it realistic as we explored the concept of a withholding Will and touch starved Hannibal.
> 
> Will written by Merry ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Hannibal written by ReallyMissCoffee ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day it will break, the fabric will tear, and... Hannibal... Hannibal's hands will likely mend as best as they can. Humans are meant to break and be pieced together. Will has learned this many times.

_'It's beautiful.'_

Sure, it's still beautiful. It's beautiful when Hannibal watches him, transfixed by the display of savagery. Will feels his gaze like a physical touch, like a caress that Hannibal wouldn't dare give without permission, for Will would never allow it.

Will uses his hands because it's intimate and killing deserves intimacy. Hannibal had been right. But he's not like Hannibal. He doesn't need to be. He'll _never_ be Hannibal. He's simply himself but cloaked in a self-righteousness that he wears well. He punishes the wicked. He's decided to be the judge, jury, and executioner and Hannibal allows him this.

Why wouldn't he? Hannibal had wanted him to delight, Hannibal had wanted him to give in and let loose. And he does. He _has_.

Like a child, he gets to play and Hannibal cleans up after him. They're not partners, though. They may have killed a Dragon together, but this is not a partnered dance. They play by Will's rules. Hannibal had been in control before, but never again. Will is never going to allow Hannibal to play with him, to pull the strings, to go to his knees and _force_ knowledge on him.

The man has stopped moving, has stopped struggling. Dead eyes look up at the ceiling and Will gets up to his feet. He's bloody. He's panting from the exertion. His muscles ache, his knuckles split. His hair is damp with sweat and his clothes cling to him uncomfortably, but Will feels _alive_. Hannibal is by the only door in and out of this room sanctioned for murder. 

Will strides to Hannibal. Hannibal is dressed well, but no longer in quirky suits and eccentric patterns. Will dresses more like Hannibal these days -- sharper clothing that fits his frame well. He knows Hannibal appreciates it. There's no need to hide behind glasses or baggy clothing now. Will raises a bloody finger to Hannibal's cheek. Only the pad touches, just the slightest of touches. 

"You can undress me if you'd like. You can draw me a bath," Will murmurs. He's had Hannibal undress him before, but the bath is a new addition.

* * *

Will is beautiful in his savagery and yet not for the first time, Hannibal wonders what this shift in their established footing has cost him. He watches Will as he stalks the man who had dared catch his eye, noting his fear, his confusion, and Will's quiet sense of power as he climbs atop him, streaked with blood, and drives his fists again and again into his face until there is nothing but blood and broken bone and the solid strike of bone on bone.

They have killed many like this in the months since their recovery, but ultimately all of the bodies are on Will's hands. Hannibal might clean up, Hannibal might gather and package Will's prey for easy transportation to their _kill room_ , but it is Will in his savage beauty who becomes the blade of his own justice. 

Once, Hannibal had imagined killing together. The dance of culmination atop the bluff had been perfection, a single moment in all of time that he returns to again and again. He can still remember the heat of Will's skin and the slide of bloodied flesh. He can remember Will's breathless pants, the way he'd curled into Hannibal's arms like he'd belonged there. Hannibal lives in that moment often, though not to pretend their current reality doesn't exist. 

He had wanted this, after all, wanted Will to reach his potential, and to see him in his own realm is _breathtaking_. He is a sleek, feral predator, growing with ferocity and strength as Hannibal drags prey back for him to whet his appetite. Will learns, but he isn't Hannibal. Hannibal had never wanted a clone, but a partner. An equal. A friend. Someone to share the darkness within.

One out of four isn't bad. 

The man stops moving and Hannibal aches. Not to join into the kill, but to have Will's hands upon him, to have Will's attention the way he wishes it. Yet in this, as in all things, Hannibal has made his choice. A life without Will Graham is not feasible. He doesn't protest.

Instead, when Will comes to him and reaches up, Hannibal fights the urge to lean into his touch. The blood smears across his cheek, and it might be a slap to his pride, but he covets every touch that Will allows. He blinks, looking Will over slowly, awed at the beauty in this dark creature, and he's already reaching for the buttons of Will's shirt when Will offers him something _more_ than the capacity to touch him.

Hannibal's fingers slip.

He's quiet for a moment. Then Hannibal undoes the first two buttons of his shirt, baring Will's throat. "Of course. Follow me."

He leads Will upstairs, into _his_ bathroom, and once there, Hannibal walks to the grand soaker tub and quietly begins the task of preparing a bath. As the tub fills slowly, Hannibal turns back to Will, and when he undoes the buttons of Will's bloodied shirt, he glances down to Will's knuckles, a small frown on his lips. 

"I would like to treat that after your bath, if you would permit it."

* * *

This isn't the first man he's killed in this new life of theirs and it won't be his last. There'd been no killing while they healed and Will had suffered greatly. He'd been angry and frustrated with no outlet, nothing to lash out against. Hannibal had been there, but Hannibal had been injured too (and worse than Will). They both had to take it easy, to not pull stitches or aggravate wounds lest they became infected. Will had been sullen and distant. Hannibal had been careful and practical. It had been a tense period of time as they fled the US and settled overseas.

It's been better since hunting with Hannibal. He selects, he finds the appropriate victim and he leaves Hannibal to do the grunt work. Hannibal has had years of experience of doing it, after all. Hannibal had left no evidence behind. Had never been caught until he'd decided to play with Will. Serves him right. Hannibal had been the spider, but now Will's escaped the sticky web and grown teeth, sharpened his claws. Has he tamed the spider or simply frightened it? He doesn't know if he wants to ask. 

Bathing is undoubtedly intimate. Cleansing his skin of blood and grime... Will may let Hannibal undress him, for Hannibal to then dispose of the clothing, but he normally goes to the bathroom attached to _his_ room and showers alone. Will doesn't know why he's permitting Hannibal _this_. Giving Hannibal this. Hannibal's fingers slip on the button. Apparently, Hannibal doesn't know either.

But Hannibal recovers admirably and two buttons are undone before Will follows Hannibal from the basement. Will's en suite bathroom doesn't have a lavish tub, so Will supposes it only makes sense. He says nothing as he comes to stand in the pristine bathroom that he's about to dirty. A part of him relishes in the idea. 

He's dirty, bloody, and closed off, but Hannibal still wants with a voracious need that Will can glimpse behind Hannibal's eyes. Is it amusing or sad? Will's unsure. He watches Hannibal start the bath water and Will waits for Hannibal to return to him. He says nothing as Hannibal finishes unbuttoning his shirt.

"Of course you would," Will replies simply. He shrugs off his shirt and lets it fall to the floor. Above the belt is where nearly all of his scars are visible. Most of them involved Hannibal in one way or the other. Will reaches out and grasps Hannibal's wrist, moving his hand to his stomach where he lets Hannibal's fingertips graze over his smile before moving it lower to his belt. He's good at subtly twisting the blade. 

"You can." He means tend to his knuckles, nothing else of course.

* * *

Shades of memory drift across Hannibal's senses as he works Will's shirt off in slow, careful movements. Blood stains his hands, getting under his nails, but he knows he'll not be permitted to wash until after they're done. Yet despite the distance between them, despite the walled-up man not inches from him, Hannibal has no desire to leave. 

Once, he had invited Will to stay with him, and Will had rejoined: 'where else would I go?' Now, in this dark den in which his small cub has almost grown into his fangs and claws, enough to snarl back, to battle Hannibal's dominance to the ground, Hannibal understands. 

They both know that Hannibal is stronger. They both know that he is more skilled. Were he to wish it, he could kill Will easily. Yet Hannibal's own claws have been sheathed, his fangs no longer bared. While Will grows strong with his potential steadily increasing day by day, Hannibal's strength is tempered by the unthinkable.

His compassion is inconvenient, but it is his _affection_ that muzzles him. He doesn't allow himself to think of the other word for it, the one that will surely ruin him if Will has not already figured it out.

So he stays. He captures Will's prey, allows Will to hunt, and Hannibal watches. It's voyeurism of a different sort and he finds it beautiful in its own twisted way. Yet Hannibal aches to join, to go to Will, to touch him and be touched in return, to hold him through his euphoria after a kill, to bask in his power. Will Graham has begun to delight...

But as Will takes one of Hannibal's hands and drags it down to brush against his scar, as the _meaning_ behind the motion becomes clear ( _you can have this, but not what you really want_ ) Hannibal's lips thin quietly. Will Graham may have begun to delight, but Hannibal now tolerates.

His fingers ache to touch, to trace the gruesome scar across Will's abdomen. Hannibal aches to do much, to explore much, but Will permits him very little. In this, Will can enjoy his power and while it frustrates Hannibal, seeing Will so confident, so assured, so _powerful_... it’s pleasant. It's beautiful. He has sketchbooks devoted to Will's kills, his expressions during his kills, and the aftermath. 

Quietly, his head ducking in understanding, Hannibal dutifully works Will's belt open. He slides the supple leather free of the loops and then lowers his hands, unbuttoning Will's slacks and drawing the zipper down. With minimal touching (for he knows that a single slip will revoke even these privileges), Hannibal glances at Will and then quietly draws his slacks down. 

And, with only a moment of hesitation, Hannibal carefully hooks his thumbs in the fabric of Will's boxers and he draws them down as well. His thumbs glide over the sides of Will's thighs - the boldest touch that he will allow himself. Then Hannibal quietly folds one knee and eases down, kneeling on the floor of the bathroom as he works Will's pants off fully. Blood makes them stick to his legs, and he's sure to take that into account.

"Do you have a preference for dinner?" Hannibal asks calmly, speaking as if he isn't kneeling before a stunningly nude Will Graham in Hannibal's own bathroom. "I will prepare while you bathe, if you wish."

* * *

Hannibal has skilled hands. Steady hands that have stitched them up, artful hands that prepare them succulent dinners, and now thorough hands that undo buttons with ease. In all of these areas, Hannibal has practice gaining said skill. Will's certain that Hannibal has undressed many lovers throughout his years -- more females than men too. Will's certain Hannibal had been the most agreeable of lovers to Alana, to Bedelia... Will's not quite certain of the level of intimacy Hannibal _had_ shared with Bedelia du Maurier, but it hardly matters now.

Hannibal won't be undressing anyone else. Will is certain. Despite not actually having sex yet, there exists an ironclad commitment between them. No monogamy discussion is required. Will isn't so cruel to go out and get laid, to come back and flaunt what Hannibal isn't getting. 

No. Hannibal is his and he is Hannibal's. Will can't imagine hooking up with anyone else. If he's feeling sexually frustrated, he takes matters into his own hands and jerks off. It's simple. He imagines that Hannibal does the same thing. 

Will they last like this? Probably not. Each day that continues has the pressure rising, the seams pulling. One day it will break, the fabric will tear, and... Hannibal... Hannibal's hands will likely mend as best as they can. Humans are meant to break and be pieced together. Will has learned this many times.

When Hannibal gets to his knees, there's a warm curl of arousal within Will. He's not ashamed of it. If he gets a bit hard, Hannibal doesn't say or do anything about it anyway. He's been hard around Hannibal before, it's not new. When thumbs glide over his skin, Will shivers but doesn't look away from Hannibal. Will's eyes are unyielding, he gazes down as Hannibal works off each sock and asks about dinner like he _isn't_ on his knees and doing this very thing. Hannibal has always managed to be so damn proper no matter what situation Will puts him in. Will's honestly impressed at times. 

"I want you to stay and wash me," Will answers as he walks past Hannibal and climbs into the hot water. Will turns off the taps and settles down, turning to watch Hannibal right himself and stand. His clothes are in a bloody pile on the tiled floor and they stand out. Being submerged in the water feels good and Will sighs as his muscles relax.

This will also be a new endeavor between them and Will is curious how Hannibal will react to it. 

* * *

Hannibal notices Will getting hard, but like each and every time that they have performed this dance of denial and posturing around one another, he says nothing. His nostrils flare slightly as he breathes in the scent, but it is clouded by blood and sweat and too faint for him to truly appreciate. So instead Hannibal focuses on the task asked of him. He gently touches one of Will's ankles to help him remove his socks, and then the next, never lingering, never touching long enough for Will to yank his gift away. Hannibal only needs one mistake to teach him a lesson, and he doesn't intend for Will to roughly jerk away from him as he had once, a few months ago.

He'd never said anything, but he'd made a point to undress himself and avoid eye contact. The message had been clear: _you touch me on my terms. Not on yours_.

So Hannibal doesn't push. He pushes Will when it comes to other aspects of their cohabitation (for it cannot be called a relationship, though Hannibal knows that the two of them are entwined so tightly that neither will attempt to untangle themselves). He tests him, tempts him, coaxes him in this new murderous aspect of his life, but ultimately Hannibal is aware that he is not in control. Though when it comes down to it, that he is on his knees before Will and that it could change in a second means that he _is_ , but he's _choosing_ not to be.

Even so, when Will makes his decision, Hannibal stills. It gives Will enough time to get up and walk to the tub, and Hannibal watches him as lithe, powerful muscles submerge themselves in the hot, soothing water. It is only then that Hannibal stands, as while this _is_ unexpected, it is also something that Hannibal had never intended to be allowed. He will not squander it by being bitter, nor will he by being eager.

Instead he quietly reaches up and rolls up the sleeves of his teal sweater, folding them neatly at the elbow. Then he walks over to the tub, to the large rim of it, and quietly takes a seat on the edge. Hannibal tests the water, then reaches for a washcloth, eyeing the long, beautifully-pale expanse of skin under the water. He soaps up the cloth, looks Will over, and then swallows. 

"Your arm, please," Hannibal requests, and then gets to work, tentatively cupping Will's bruised, bloodied, and cut hand with faint touches of his fingers as he gently takes the cloth to the back of Will's hand, to his palm. Hannibal takes great care in cleaning the blood out from around Will's fingernails, working until there isn't a trace of it left before he quietly requests Will's other hand and does the same thing. He's unhurried and thoughtful, and in this moment marked by the humidity and steam from the bath, Hannibal quietly basks in the act. He has always enjoyed the act of bathing another. He had simply never assumed that Will would allow him. 

* * *

This is a new direction for them, another path Will is leading them down. He has no designs on this -- at least none that he is _aware_ of (which isn't exactly saying much). Hannibal will agree because Hannibal loves him. Or whatever Hannibal is capable of feeling. Maybe it's not love in some bullshit romantic sense. It's not riding off into the sunset and feeding each other strawberries. They have no anniversary date (although there are a few different dates they could pick -- how about the evening Hannibal carved him open and killed Abigail? Or the day Will tried to kill them both after embracing Hannibal?) 

Maybe it's love, maybe it's not. Sentiment. Compassion. Affection. Whatever it is, Will undoubtedly exploits it. (Will isn't even looking inside of himself, at what he feels toward Hannibal. He's not opening that Pandora's Box. Not yet.)

Hannibal knows nowthat there will be no touching without Will's permission. Not anymore. Hannibal used to get into his personal space, used to offer small shows off support such as a hand on his arm or lower back, but never again. Will is the one who holds physical contact as a captive. He grasps onto this control so tightly as if it were a life preserver. He withholds and he gives and it's simultaneously never enough and too much.

(But it's safe for now so he'll cling and he won't drown.)

Will's had bed baths while in the hospital. The nurse's touch had been impersonal and clinical as they did their job and washed the sweat off his body when he'd been unable to get out of bed (thanks Hannibal).

This isn't that. Hannibal doesn't hide as his eyes roam over what he can see and his touch is gentle. There's no point in being petty or difficult in this. Will complies with each instruction given and Hannibal is very thorough in washing. The attention catches Will off guard. Each time Will is about to comment, to state that the area is clean, Hannibal moves on. So Will stays quiet and lets Hannibal work.

No conversation is needed. It's not awkward. For as fucked up as they are, they're surprisingly in tune with each other. 

Little by little flakes of blood litter the water and Will's skin is cleaned. The superficial wounds sting but Will doesn't pull away. Why shouldn't it hurt? Why should he enact violence and death and get away clean and unscathed? It feels right. It is right.

This close, Will spots the slight smear of blood on Hannibal's cheek and he doesn't hesitate to reach out. He drips on Hannibal as he wipes at the red and frees Hannibal of it.

"If I told you to get in the bath with me right now, clothes and all, would you do it?"

* * *

Hannibal falls into this new closeness the same way he falls into everything else between them. It isn't a mutual intimacy, but it _is_ akin to worship in these quiet moments of care. Hannibal is so in tune with Will's body simply by memorization alone that he knows precisely when to move on to a new place. Will begins to tense when he's lingered too long, and so Hannibal quietly moves somewhere else. Will's other hand, his forearm, washing up his biceps and shoulders, then carefully around the curve of his neck. Here, Hannibal knows that he could squeeze, that one careful twist would rid him of all of his indignity.

It would also rid him of Will.

He slides the washcloth over Will's throat and imagines it, imagines a time where he could have done it. He still can, but he no longer wants to. The thought is sickening. So despite his own chosen submission in the face of Will's power, Hannibal continues to touch him, continues to clean, and when Will reaches up to touch his face suddenly, Hannibal's slight twitch says more than enough. He jolts in surprise and holds himself back from leaning in, though only just. This is rare. Will sometimes permits Hannibal's touch, but touching him in return? He saves those moments, uses them as fodder, as reward, sometimes as punishment. 

Hannibal had still been incarcerated for three years, after all. The only touch he had been given had been clinical, or rough treatment from orderlies. He loathes the fact that he is starved for touch and that Will _knows_ it. Yet Hannibal simply stays still, mindless of the slightly-bloodied water that drips on his sweater. It will need to be thrown out, which is a shame. He'd liked this one.

There's a vibration of need under Hannibal's skin, a small tremor that he strives to keep hidden, but likely fails. Will's touch is quick and fleeting but Hannibal aches to lean into it just the same. 

Yet when Will continues, when he issues his question, Hannibal stills. He's quiet for a moment, surprised, and there _is_ a bitterness within that Will is attempting to force him out of his comfort zone, attempting to challenge him. One day, Hannibal knows, he will not rise to Will's bait.

Today is not that day.

"Are you asking me because you fear that I might decline were you to order me to? Or do you simply wish to hear me say it?" Hannibal muses, looking down at Will in the tub. The water is bloodied; his clothes will be ruined. Hannibal still shifts, still moves as if he's planning on standing in order to do precisely what Will has asked. 

"Either way, the answer is yes."

* * *

Will doesn't often reach out and touch Hannibal. Sometimes he has urges to do so, just to verify that he's real, just to feel the warmth of another. With Molly he'd been used to such things and an easy intimacy... but nothing is simple with Hannibal. Nothing ever has been. Not that he'd been completely transparent with her, but Will still misses the contact, the warm body next to his in bed. But there's no way he's inviting Hannibal into _his_ bed.

He's being cruel. Will knows Hannibal longs to be touched, longs for his attention, for more than _just_ his company or his presence. Hannibal wants Will's mind, his thoughts and opinions... Hannibal wants it _all_. Heart, soul, dreams, Will's future... It's daunting. Cruelty is far safer. Will feels contained in this coldness, in this detachment.

And they're both well practiced in these roles. He knows he can't be too ridiculous in his demands. He can't be completely rude. Will still uses manners (usually). He compliments Hannibal on food. He thanks him for stretching his shoulder and neck out. 

But is this question -- is this challenge too much? Hannibal has limits. Will is still learning them. He hasn't suffered too much push back -- not yet, at least, but Will is certain he'll overstep sometime soon. It's only a matter of time, surely. 

They had been doing fine. Will had been relaxing from the bath and the touch. Not quite a direct touch, not skin on skin as the washcloth offered a small, soft barrier, but it had still been nice. Will can see himself doing this again, can see inviting Hannibal to bathe him like some parent (or a giving lover). Hannibal will have to clean the bathroom and the tub after... (Will cleans his own after a bloody shower, gets the bleach out and goes to town. It's his bathroom after all, he wouldn't ask or tell Hannibal to do it. Hannibal takes care of the room and body.)

There's a dead pervert in their basement and Will is asking about Hannibal climbing into the bath with him, clothes and all. A test, no doubt and Hannibal doesn't look pleased with the prospect, but Will knows he will do it. 

"I wanted to hear it," Will admits freely. He doesn't address the other option -- that he'd been afraid Hannibal might decline (it's true). When Hannibal shifts and answers, a traitorous relief creeps in. Will looks down at the bloody water and draws his knees up as he scoots forward, obviously making room for Hannibal to get into the tub _behind_ him. Will is going to have to sit in-between Hannibal's legs. 

"I want you to," Will adds on. This way, it's not a direct order.

* * *

Will wants to hear it, but Hannibal suspects (in a small, secret part of his mind) that the other suggestion had also been true. Will's shoulders relax ever so slightly at Hannibal's answer, and the sight registers as a _release of tension_. If Will had been tense, he'd been unsure. Hannibal can add two and two together. 

Yet when Will leans forward, when Will's knees lift and he makes space _behind_ him, Hannibal feels a sudden sharp twist in his chest. Will wants him in behind. He doesn't want to _look_ at him, is Hannibal's first thought, but it's immediately followed by an added stress in Hannibal's mind. 

To be so close to him, to be able to smell his scent and feel his warmth and to not _touch_ will be torture. This, Hannibal suspects suddenly, is why Will had suggested it. His lips thin further until they pale in his displeasure, and when Will adds on that he wants Hannibal to (making it a prompt, not an order), Hannibal closes his eyes. 

Then he silently rises. His shoes are not on, thankfully, but everything else is. He braces himself against the sensation, sets one hand on the rim of the tub, and then he slowly, gingerly steps into the water. 

The heat is immediately soothing, but the sensation of damp fabric instantly reminds Hannibal of his attempt to struggle free of the weighted waters of the Atlantic. An old, lizard-brain panic tries and fails to ignite in his chest, for _this_ water is warm. It is heavy, soaking his clothing through uncomfortably, but it isn't about to drag Will away from him. It isn't seeking to steal him away as it almost had when Hannibal had needed to dive powerfully after Will in order to rescue him from the ocean. 

So Hannibal moves, submerging himself slowly. It takes him a moment to realize that he'll need to stretch his legs out, that kneeling won't be an option. So while he eyes Will uncertainly, he does stretch his legs out and he grimaces slightly as he settles into the water. His slacks feel uncomfortable and then the water creates a cushion around the thin fabric and his skin. It, at least, isn't bad. His _sweater_ on the other hand... 

Hannibal's breath hitches when the somewhat-scratchy material suctions to his torso, scraping wetly over the sensitive, broad bullet scar on his stomach and the less-severe one against his back. He wants to twist away from it, from the scent of another man's blood, from the soap, but he doesn't. Instead Hannibal breathes through the worst of it, re-collects himself, and then silently reaches again for the washcloth.

He readies it with soap, tells Will, "I'll wash your back for you," in a quiet, level tone, and then begins, trailing the cloth over Will's back and shoulders, and then he minds his touch as he reaches around and begins on Will's chest, careful not to touch him directly.

* * *

What will be too much? What is Will going to ask or demand that will have Hannibal denying him (or doing something worse)? Will is a little curious, a little afraid. It's not like he spends time actively trying to come up with discomforting ideas for Hannibal -- he's not _that_ fucked up. He could never see them doing this type of thing _before._ Before he let Hannibal draw him in, cup his face... Even angry and hurt, they had gravitated closely around each other. 

Now... Now it's a cool intimacy. Hannibal has tended to his wounds, seen him naked, undressed him, trimmed his hair... But it's been with permission, it's Will holding the leash and jerking Hannibal closer. It's Hannibal asking and never, never assuming.

(And each time he comes, Will feels... Will feels...?)

Will observes Hannibal's displeasure streak across his face at the positioning Will is setting up for them. He's not about to have a bath _facing_ Hannibal, for him to be so exposed especially after Hannibal is going to get into the bath wearing his fucking clothes. 

Will can't help but turn and watch Hannibal stand before carefully stepping into the water. Will has no idea what kind of expression he's wearing -- probably something dumbstruck because it feels--

When Hannibal lowers himself into the water Will looks forward. He stares at his knees, his heart beating a little harder in his chest as the water is displaced and Hannibal joins him. There's a brief pause before Hannibal realizes he'll have to stretch his legs and frame Will with them. Hannibal does so a moment later and Will feels a sliver of unease... A bath _with_ Hannibal. His back exposed. Hannibal could hold him. Could choke him.

Instead, Hannibal washes his back and Will shivers. He resists the urge to close his eyes and sink against Hannibal's chest. Will stares resolutely at the not-clean water. He's stained this water. And now Hannibal's clothes will be ruined too.

"When you listen... When you comply... It feels _good_ ," Will murmurs. 

* * *

Will doesn't look at him, but nor does he look pleased. Hannibal is quiet as Will's attention turns to the water and while Hannibal does follow his gaze, it's only to note that it is pink with blood and full of suds. Hannibal makes a mental note to drain the water and add more fresh before washing Will's hair for him, but otherwise he focuses on his task.

They don't talk as Hannibal lathers Will's skin up, washing it even without a trace of blood present. There will be sweat and discomfort if he doesn't, and Hannibal has no desire to hasten this moment. Will has never offered him this, and even if Hannibal is not comfortable in the bath, Will's presence helps him enjoy it. Once again he feels muzzled, feels like he's yanking on the edge of a short leash, but Will, as always, holds him back.

He hopes that it might change someday. Hannibal hopes that Will might find his empathy or at least an ounce of sympathy. Perhaps one day. 

But that day is not today. Hannibal washes him silently, the washcloth rhythmic. Regardless of how much he wants to brush his fingers over Will's skin, he doesn't. He sticks to the cloth and then cups water in his hands, using it to rinse Will's skin free of the suds. 

Yet when Will's voice finally sounds, when he finally whispers into the silence, Hannibal almost goes still. Then he frowns, the expression hidden as he gazes down at the old stab wound on Will's shoulder and aches to press his fingers to it. Aches to press his lips to it... 

"You feel powerful," Hannibal translates softly. "That you could hope to control someone like me makes you feel as though you have control in general. Over your life. Over your situation. Over this new reality." 

Hannibal swallows, and as he sits behind Will, he leans in. It's daring but he doesn't actually touch him. He merely breathes in his scent, his warmth, and Hannibal feels the ache of want again curl through him. Will is far enough away that he won't be able to feel the proof of Hannibal's desire. This is thankfully something that they don't mention. Hannibal knows that Will is still aroused, but neither of them acknowledge it verbally. 

"I'm aware, Will," Hannibal adds. "That I can play a part in you feeling good is pleasing to me as well."

* * *

When he kills, Hannibal watches him with penetrating eyes and razor-sharp focus. The attention can't be ignored, even in the midst of the violence and adrenaline, Will feels it (feels _Hannibal_ ). Hannibal stands by the door, an impartial God bearing witness to the whole affair. Hannibal says and does nothing if the men beg for their lives and look to him for hope. 

There is no hope, but if there was, Hannibal would surely be the last to offer it.

Hannibal is also there to ensure Will doesn't get in over his head, that he doesn't end up too bloodied or worse. Hannibal has intervened a few times. Earlier on, when Will hadn't been in as good of shape, Hannibal had leaped in an pulled a stockier man off of him before his throat could be crushed. Will has infinitely more practice _imagining_ killing than enacting it. That's where Hannibal comes in. 

Sometimes Will gets a little hard, flies a little high from Hannibal's intense gaze. And when Hannibal undresses him, Will notices he's not alone in his arousal. They've done nothing and said nothing about it. 

And Will feels a little jittery at this wet proximity, this step closer--

' _You feel powerful_... _That you could hope to control someone like me makes you feel as though you have control in general. Over your life. Over your situation. Over this new reality.'_

Succinct. Bullseye. Will is equally still. The truth deserves his respect, his quiet focus. He feels the water shift as Hannibal nears him but does not touch. Will hears Hannibal breathe him in and his lips pull down. How desperate is Hannibal?

(Another question Will doesn't likely want to know the answer to.)

Hannibal is pleased by playing a part in Will feeling good.

"You think I want you pleased?" Will asks, with no malice in his tone. It's more or less a rhetorical question. 

His right hand grabs at Hannibal's wrist and he brings Hannibal's arm around him while his left hand pulls the washcloth free. Will places Hannibal's palm against his throat, his own hand curling over it to force Hannibal's to do the same. He presses lightly. Hannibal's fingertips can surely feel his quickened pulse. 

"You ever think about killing me?"

* * *

Hannibal doesn't actually believe that Will wants him pleased. In fact, he is quite certain that his own pleasure - his own contentment and satisfaction - do not factor into Will's equations, nor his concerns. Hannibal feeds them. He cleans. He engages in as much conversation as Will allows - undoubtedly enough to keep him tame enough to not lash out. He takes Will out under the guise of a closeness that they do not fully share, courting the illusion of intimacy more than allowing himself to experience it. And ultimately, Hannibal _takes_. Will selects his target and Hannibal takes them, secures them for Will. At first it had been under heavy sedation to assist Will in learning (after a few failed attempts) and then it had been under heavy binding. Only recently has he begun to allow Will the cage matches he so clearly desires.

But despite everything, despite Will's occasional compliments and conversation, despite the smiles he sometimes offers Hannibal, he knows that Will does not - or will not - care about his own pleasure. He likely holds less sway over Will now than his dogs once had, and the thought burns like a bitter fire under his skin. Yet now, after Hannibal has given everything up for this man, after he has so cleanly destroyed the rest of his life, what else does he have? 

Plus, there's always the hope that Will's mind will change. Hannibal is _fairly_ certain that this is a bid for control, a punishment for past actions. That perhaps Will holds more sentiment than he wishes. That perhaps one day he might not delight _just_ for the thrill of blood and death, but Hannibal's presence, his touch, his closeness and favor...

Before Hannibal can answer, Will's hand suddenly grabs his wrist. Hannibal tenses, initially anticipating a reprimand for moving in too close, but instead he's drawn in closer. The washcloth is taken from him and Hannibal feels dizzy with how much of Will's skin he is suddenly permitted to touch. Will's warmth presses along his forearm and his hand and Hannibal tenses, his breath catching. The dizziness only spikes when his fingers are forced around Will's throat and Hannibal feels the shape of it, the warmth of his skin, and the fluttering pulse underneath. 

Hannibal only _just_ manages to turn his shuddering groan into a breathy exhale instead. His muscles tense, rigid for but a second, and then he tentatively tightens his hold on Will's throat. Hannibal closes his eyes, shuddering at the lance of sensation prickles through him. And when Will's question registers, Hannibal can only weather the storm in his mind.

"Yes," he admits, and his voice is suddenly rough. There's no hiding how affected he is. "I do. Just as I suspect you think about killing me. I won't," he adds, quieter. "They are thoughts, not whims. Though that does not temper them."

* * *

Will believes that Hannibal hasn't paid nearly enough for his offenses and thus the withholding continues. Will knows that he'd feel better if he opened up to Hannibal, he'd be happier if they were closer to equals than _this_. Will can see it, is the thing. He can see them getting along, both reaching out and touching, an actual relationship. It seems more like hazy distant dream than a tangible reality. Not for him, not for them. (But maybe someday.)

Hannibal hadn't been expecting Will to reach out like he has. It's pretty obvious in how Hannibal tenses and the sound that's made (wrecked, but arousing somehow?). Will doesn't stop or pull. Perhaps shaking things up will keep Hannibal guessing anyway, keep him on the edge. Perhaps it's time to get a little closer, to give Hannibal a treat. Or perhaps it's more akin to offering a few more scraps to a desperate dog. 

Hannibal is his desperate dog.

The thought isn't pleasing to Will, actually. Yes, there's an alluring power over Hannibal, but Hannibal... Isn't Hannibal supposed to stand tall and proud? Majestic like the ravenstag, immovable...

The scales have tipped and Will is now in control. Hannibal has gone to his knees multiple times now to undress him. Hannibal is in the bath and in his goddamn clothes. For him. To be with him. And Hannibal allows him to push him into this. Hannibal's hand tightens minutely and there's a jolt of sick expectancy that shrieks through Will. It's the possible threat of danger, watching an oncoming train, looking over a bridge and all it would take is one simple step, one simple movement--

Will is harder than he'd like to be, harder than he's ever been in Hannibal's presence. When Hannibal answers, Will's breathing quickens. He can hear how just how affected Hannibal it is. Will's not surprised by the words -- by the _truth_. There's no way Hannibal _wouldn't_ think of ending him, of stopping this game and collecting his pride and moving on, finally ridding himself... 

Will pushes into the touch, he arches his neck blatantly as a gasp leaves his mouth at the sudden increase in tension. Will's hand squeezes Hannibal's own and in turn his own neck. A bit of breathplay never hurt anyone, right? Flirt with danger, edge that line. They both know they would kill each other with their hands, after all.

"I won't either," Will admits, voice a little ragged from the pressure on his throat and arousal. "There's no escaping _us_." 

What Will really means is _there's no escaping me._

* * *

Hannibal's pride is a fickle thing. He is a proud man, and yet this is his new reality. To submit, to allow Will to instruct and deny is not something he had ever assumed would happen and yet there is something equally satisfying about this. The denial is frustrating. It's the distance that truly makes this dynamic unbearable some days, but Hannibal has not yet found his limit. For while he is but a loyal dog with Will (he has not missed that irony) he is still almost himself when they venture out together.

Taking Will to dinner is a treat, though it is often merely to find or stalk a mark that one of them has identified. He's still a gracious host, still plays the perfect gentleman as he orders for them both, seeping control back in this small way that he no longer has in their life behind closed doors. He is still a proud man. He hasn't fully handed that leash to Will. 

Yet as he feels Will's pounding pulse beneath his palm, feels the streak of heat and desire that stab through him so sharply that he feels robbed of breath, he knows that in this moment, he might hold Will's throat but Will is the one in charge. Will holds the leash. 

The water makes it difficult to smell the increase of arousal but Hannibal doesn't need the physical proof to see it. He can feel it in Will's pulse, in the soft sounds he makes, in the desperate way he arches and twists into the touch, and in the way he squeezes harder. 

Hannibal's slacks are tented obscenely in the water. His eyes close as he breathes, fighting for control, as this is the most that Will has permitted him to touch since embracing him on the cliff. It's intimate. It's dangerous. 

For Hannibal knows how to kill him. Hannibal could arch his palm and cut off the blood supply to Will's brain. He could flatten his palm and crush his trachea. The possibilities are there and yet as he feels Will's thrumming pulse, feels the tighter squeeze, he knows that this is not deadly. This is not to kill him. Hannibal allows Will to guide him for a moment and then, as Will's voice gasps out what it does, Hannibal shivers. 

Hannibal reads Will's meaning clearly. "There was never any escaping. Not for me," he breathes lowly against Will's skin. He doesn't touch but his breath can likely be felt against Will's shoulder. 

Hannibal considers the moment. Then, without asking, he shifts his hand against Will's throat. He moves to avoid the arteries that could kill Will with a slip of his hand and instead moves to restrict his breathing properly. He squeezes, quietly delighting in the instinctual struggle under his hands, but he goes slowly, carefully, restricting air in slow increments to monitor Will properly. 

"You have always been my exception. My weakness. And you know it. It delights you, what I would allow. How far I might let you push. Yet it also scares you. I still know you, Will. The blood etched into your soul does not obscure your face. It only enhances it. You cannot hide from me any more than I can hide from you."

* * *

Allowing a killer to potentially choke him, inviting this flirtation of sorts is a lovely show of Will's recklessness. Will had started this, had reached out and touched Hannibal and moved his hand to his throat. And Will has encouraged Hannibal to squeeze (just a little bit, anyway). This is his design, his doing and Hannibal follows his lead.

Will doesn't want to die. Not anymore, at least. The gravity of _Hannibal_ had been a massive weight. Injured and high on the kill, Will had thought it best to end them before they could ever really begin (did the world need more monsters? No, of course not). It had been cruel. _He'd_ been cruel. Hannibal had helped him up, pulled him close, trusted him... And Will had responded by pulling them both over the edge and into the freezing Atlantic. 

Hannibal hadn't let him drown. Hannibal hadn't let him die. The least Will can do is honor that and live _now_. 

And he _does_. He lets Hannibal spoil him with better cologne and clothing. He goes out to dinner and he's a polite date while Hannibal smoothly takes control and orders for them. Will sometimes assists Hannibal in the kitchen. They eat nearly every meal together. Will helps take care of _their_ home.

Having power over Hannibal feels good but so too does the _threat_ of Hannibal, rubbing up against his inherent dangerousness. Will's never asked about the body count, how many pigs Hannibal has slaughtered (Will doesn't count Bev and Abigail among those). But Hannibal doesn't kill anymore. It's not his hands that take life (but it's Hannibal's hands that choose the cuts of meat...).

Will assumes Hannibal is hard but it's not at the prospect of killing him, no. It's from this intimacy, it's from being allowed to touch -- to _really_ touch. It's not contact that's a part of the wound care, it's not help in stretching. This is meaningful and comes with validating dialogue too.

When Hannibal speaks Will closes his eyes. He likes imagining Hannibal trying to get away but unable to do so... Like a rat in a maze, Will wants Hannibal hopelessly lost within him -- because of him. Hannibal's hand moves of its own accord and Will only has a moment to decide if that's okay, because then his breathing is being restricted and Will instinctively jerks, his fingernails digging into Hannibal's skin.

Will doesn't try and stop it. He can still breathe, he's not going to pass out. Will doesn't need to confirm what Hannibal's said. Will does delight in what Hannibal allows but it also unsettles him. No hiding for either of them, eyes wide open as they face each other...

He makes a decision. His left hand comes to wrap around his dick and Will begins stroking it quickly, his hips canting upward to ease the amount of splashing. There's no way that Hannibal won't know what he's doing, but that suits Will just fine. His body sings at the mix of familiar pleasure with the added restriction to his throat. Will groan is a strangled thing but he only speeds up his hand.

* * *

The bite of Will's nails is like fire under Hannibal's skin, hot and burning and thrilling. How many times has Hannibal done this before, to a different end? He's killed people like this. He'd rendered them unconscious. He'd choked Miriam Lass out to suit his purposes. He'd broken Franklyn's neck. He's killed like this before, but no moment means more to him than this. That it is _Will's_ nails digging into his skin is poignant. Hannibal quietly delights in the way Will tenses and jerks, and Hannibal's answering breath is quiet. 

This is daring. This is _dangerous_. If he over-steps, he doesn't doubt that Will is going to react badly, that he's going to retaliate. Intimacy or not, care or not, Will might lash out and wrench himself away as soon as he's able. Yet as Will jerks and grips him tightly, Hannibal's mind all but sings in response. Will doesn't touch him like this - hasn't since their embrace upon the cliff. Outside of a few casual touches or pointed attempts to reward him, Will's hands usually remain to himself. To feel his touch like this is perfection.

And then Hannibal senses Will shifting. He opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) and the pulse under his hand speeds up. At first he doesn't register it; his attention is so caught by Will's touch. Then he becomes aware of the motion of Will's arm and the soft splashes in the water. Hannibal stills, then he quickly puts it all together, and before he can censor it, he lets out a low, strangled sound in the back of his throat. 

He feels Will's answering groan against his hand, and the desire to wrench Will in closer and bury his face into his hair is almost overwhelming. Hannibal aches to possess, to hold, to crush Will against his chest and soak up every point of contact, but he doesn't. Like this, he can't see where Will is undoubtedly hard and touching himself, but the knowledge alone is dizzying.

" _Will_ ," Hannibal breathes, and the sound is low and wrecked, all but wrenched from the depths of his chest. His hold tightens slightly, tight enough to feel the thundering of Will's pulse and the quick attempts he makes to breathe deeper. In this, being able to restrict him in some way in return - the way Will has so fully restricted him in their cohabitation - is as arousing as his hand around Will's throat. 

Were Hannibal a lesser man, he'd touch himself as well, but he knows that Will wouldn't allow that. Instead, sitting here, aching to touch beyond Will's throat, Hannibal hisses a breath out between his teeth and does what he can to control the mild tremor in his own hand.

"Will... May I see? Would you grant me that?" Hannibal aches to see, but he also aches to press close, to mold Will's back against his chest and bask in his warmth.

* * *

Will could choose to be angry that Hannibal had decided to move, that he dared to push back and squeeze... but right now it's not on his mind. Will won't be storming out. He won't be throwing a fit. It hadn't taken very long for Hannibal to understand the nature of this game, to know that Will's permission is paramount in this, to understand that this is both a power play of sorts _and_ a punishment.

Hannibal's offenses? Playing with him. Letting the Encephalitis rage on. Making him question his sanity. The framing. An ear fed down his throat. Beverly. Abigail's second life. The clever manipulation of "giving" himself up... Pointing the Dragon at Molly and Walter...

But what of Will's offenses? He's not blameless.

As Will fists his cock, it dawns on him that this is equally thrilling _and_ messed up and he doesn't know what should matter more to him. He can't bring himself to really care either. It may be focusing on the carnal, shedding a light on this unexplored sexual aspect of their relationship, but both Hannibal and he know that this isn't really _changing_ anything between them. 

Will can feel Hannibal's need radiating off him in waves. It's confirmed a moment later when Hannibal asks -- no, _requests_. Hannibal may not have begged in words, but it's evident in his tone. Hannibal wants more. Hannibal wants to _feel_ him, wants to _see_ him do this.It's a heady feeling and Will trembles with the power of being _wanted._ At being _desired_. Has he ever experienced this before? He doesn't think so.

In order to let Hannibal see, Will would have to scoot back and be against Hannibal. He'd lean against Hannibal's chest. He'd feel Hannibal's own arousal. Hannibal would have to look over his shoulder to see, maybe rest his chin on Will's shoulder too.

At first Will says nothing, his hand continuing to move and his body straining as the pleasure steadily climbs. He could be selfish in this -- could _continue_ to be selfish. Will can see himself doing it. It would be simple. Easy.

And yet he pauses and he slides back in the tub until he's flush against Hannibal's chest. There's a very obvious hardness pressed against his ass and Will has no fucking idea how to feel about it so he promptly decides to ignore it. He takes away the hand covering Hannibal's own to reach down and wrap around his cock again, preferring his dominant hand in the task.

"You can adjust to see how-however you need to, but don't move your arms. Don't... move your hands," Will instructs. He rolls his hips, enjoying the drag of his hand over sensitive skin and also the presence of Hannibal's own erection. It's reassuring in a way.

* * *

There is a very real, very cruel possibility that Will won't permit him to do this. Hannibal tries to gear himself up for such a denial, but it is difficult to put into words, to feel all the way down to his core. He aches to gather this man in close, to breathe him in, to bite, to hold, to _own_ and consume without killing. He wants to squeeze Will's throat until Will's struggling with it, and he wants to tenderly caress his skin until he's trembling with it, or until he can no longer handle it and turns away. He wants to touch, to explore, to _have_ , and to be touched in return. One day, perhaps, but he is not expecting that day to be this day.

Will's long pause makes Hannibal believe that his request won't be granted and so he closes his eyes instead and listens, drinking in the thundering beat of Will's pulse and every sound he can make out. It's akin to licking water from the ground when dying of thirst, but it's _something_ , and Hannibal basks in it.

Which is why he's not expecting it when Will does move back. Hannibal's shoulders tense immediately and his grip tightens before he remembers that he'd not been allowed to. He relaxes his hold, but the sharp, deep gasp that still escapes him is far too audible to be subtle in any way. His eyes snap open and Hannibal nearly shakes with effort when Will presses back against him. It's more than arousal; it's something visceral and sharp, and Will's name is already on his exhale when Will takes his hand away.

It's jarring. To be offered so much of Will's contact, but to have _Will's_ touch denied to him. Hannibal's jaw clenches but he doesn't argue. Yet Will takes it a step further with his instructions. It is honestly nearing cruel - to give him the sensation but none of the release. To have Will lean back flush against him but not let Hannibal hold him, not let him work out the energy and desire to _have_ Will that so often claws at his mind. Hannibal's soft, bitten-off sound is controlled, but at its core is still a swirling mass of need and frustration and acceptance.

He _could_ move if he wanted to. He could. He doesn't. There is no point if Will doesn't come to him of his own volition. So Hannibal takes what he's been given. He wets his lips and tentatively leans in, not moving his hands or his arms but he leans in enough to look down, and the sight goes straight to his cock. Hannibal groans softly under his breath, nothing but a mild desperation as he watches Will's hand stroke over the aching, flushed length of his cock. 

Hannibal drinks it all in, every part. He locks away the tremble in Will's muscles, the tension in his arm as he strokes, the flush that has long since crept down his neck. He watches and _feels_ the shift of Will's hips (for Will is pressed so _perfectly_ close that the friction is almost overwhelming) and Hannibal's next exhale is hot against Will's throat, though he does not touch. 

"Beautiful," Hannibal murmurs, shivering. "And cruel. You feel powerful like this, knowing the hold you have over me. I wonder what excites you more. The idea that you have _taken_ this power from me, or the idea that I have freely given it to you."

* * *

What else could Will get Hannibal to do? How much further can he push in this? Every time he yanks the chain, Hannibal has come like a good dog. _His_ good dog. Starved for attention, Hannibal just wants to be able to lick at his fingers and be given any love in return. It's less about obedience and more about desperation, isn't it? A gnawing need for _him_... (What the fuck is Will supposed to _do_ with this knowledge?)

This isn't sustainable. He'd said similar words years ago and they had been just as true then. How much damage is he doing in this? Is the cost worth it? Can Hannibal withstand it? These are questions Will doesn't want to look at -- doesn't know _how_ to look at, so he doesn't. Not now. They dart around in his mind but he tries his best to ignore them.

It's easier to ignore them with a hand around his dick and pressed into Hannibal. Hannibal is firm and alive. It's closeness, another human, all things his body seems to like... Or is it just _Hannibal_? Will hears a soft groan, he feels Hannibal's breath and feels his obvious interest.

He's called beautiful. (Whatever.) He's called cruel. (True.) 

_'You feel powerful like this, knowing the hold you have over me. I wonder what excites you more. The idea that you have **taken** this power from me, or the idea that I have freely given it to you.'_

A question for the ages. At least when Will first hears it. And then it's so stupidly _obvious_ that Will can only give a haggard chuckle.

"You... It's you," Will hisses out. 

It feels like something he can give Hannibal -- that he knows. That he's aware. That it means this much to him that Hannibal is wrapped around his finger. They're now the epitome of the quintessential dysfunctional relationship. His left hand lifts, reaching behind to grip into Hannibal's hair somewhat awkwardly. Will pulls Hannibal's head closer, all but pushing him into his neck as Will tilts his head to the side to allow it. 

Hannibal's face against his skin feels good. It heightens the moment, sensation shooting through him at such a simple thing. It's another step into intimacy, the scratch of slight stubble, Hannibal's breath. _Closer._ Will jerks and cries out as he comes, body tensing in pleasure and Hannibal fully able to feel his orgasm.

* * *

Will's chuckle is rough and Hannibal can feel it under his hand, an old, ugly sound of bitterness and desire that curls over Hannibal's skin like a flame licking old parchment. The knowledge that it is _him_ is not surprising - or it shouldn't be - but Hannibal immediately understands. 

This is more than Will simply pushing. This is the punishment that Hannibal had expected it to be. It is punishment and control and intimacy all rolled into one, a safe ledge on which Will can kneel while watching Hannibal from a safe distance. He whets his appetite when it comes to his fascination, but more than that, he also obtains the added benefit of punishment, of revenge.

Hannibal cannot fault him. For many, three years locked away would be punishment enough, but Will knows him. He knows that Hannibal served only as long as he was present in conversation. He knows that Hannibal's incarceration was fractional at best, spent in the grand rooms of his own mind, conversing with shades and shadows as time ticked by in reality. Of course that wouldn't be enough for a man like Will. 

And yet as Hannibal watches him, as he feels Will's breathing become ragged, as he feels his warmth, he idly muses on how chaotic this is. How unsustainable. This is punishment, but Will is baring himself for Hannibal. He's offered so many openings that Hannibal _could_ have taken to lunge for his vulnerable underbelly, for his throat. 

Will's power exists only as long as Hannibal allows it. There are no chains around his arms, no torture, no punishment. Yet just the same, Will holds _extra_ power in that he knows what Hannibal actually desires. Him.

Hannibal feels it course through him now as he watches Will shake and tremble, his fist flying over his cock and his pulse pounding under Hannibal's hand. He has never desired another like he desires Will Graham. Physical touch seems impossible to hope for, but Hannibal wants more than even that. 

He watches Will touch himself and aches to reach down and help him. The desire to touch, to _take,_ is almost overwhelming. So when Will reaches back suddenly and his fingers fist tightly in Hannibal's hair to yank him in close, the sound that escapes Hannibal is not physical pain, but one of agony at needing to hold himself in check. 

Will's earlier instructions pound against his senses. He can't touch. He can't move his arms. Yet as Hannibal rests there, feeling the heat of Will's skin, breathing him in desperately, he wants nothing more than to grab Will close and reach down. _He_ wants to touch Will, to stroke him to his completion. He wants to feel Will shudder and be the cause of his moans, his cries. And as he feels Will's pulse thrum, Hannibal's lip curls in a would-be-snarl. The desire to unleash his restless energy in the form of a _bite_ almost chokes him with desire, but he doesn't. Instead Hannibal presses in as close as he dares and soaks up every point of contact. 

He feels Will jerk when he comes. He aches to hold him, to feel it viscerally, but he can't. Hannibal drinks down each of Will's cries and he grinds his teeth against the urge to bite, to grab, to shove Will back in the tub and lean in and swallow him down, to _taste_ him. His own cock aches, his hips twitching minutely, but he doesn't grind against Will's back. Instead he watches, hungry and desperate, as Will comes all over his hand and into the water, mingling with the blood already present. All Hannibal can do is groan, the sound rough with need, but he doesn't ask for anything. He knows he'd be denied.

* * *

While in the shower jerking off, he's thought about Hannibal a few times. Stray thoughts mostly and nothing overly explicit, nothing overly involved. Will's curious how it would be, sure. He's never really been with another man like _that._ He doesn't really hold any reservations about it, though. This isn't some sexual identity crisis for him. Gender, genitalia... Hannibal has been a demanding and transformative force in his life, why shouldn't this be an exception. Why should it matter if it hadn't been the norm before?

It doesn't to Will. He's never cared for labels. Never cared for diagnoses. Words mean little, it's actions that define a person. And they've never talked about it anyway -- about romance or sex or what _they_ are. They haven't talked about the fact that Will had left a marriage and an adopted son _for_ Hannibal. Hannibal asks about his preferences for dinner, his opinions on colors, but nothing so personal, nothing so... potentially heated or intimate. 

But Will is shoving desire and lust in the limelight now. Arousal may have been present _before,_ but it'd been glossed over and ignored. Now, Will feels Hannibal's erection, now Will is coming and Hannibal is right here with him, bearing witness to the entire episode. It feels much better than when he's gotten off by himself. Will can't help but be aware of just how _much_ better it really is. Hannibal is tense behind him, undoubtedly struggling with being unable to touch, unable to be more _involved_. Will's hand tightens in Hannibal's hair, he pulls on the longer strands as his hand pulls away from his dick. 

Will is shuddering, breathing harder and quicker as his body feels unhinged and he blinks, looking down at the mess he's made. 

"Fuck," Will curses, and he pushes Hannibal's head back and away from him before letting go. Suddenly the closeness seems suffocating and Will is yanking Hannibal's hand off his throat too. He hadn't meant-- He hadn't thought-- 

There's no graceful way to exit the tub and he's awkward as he scrambles to get up and leave, splashing as he finally manages it. He's a dripping mess, but clean.

"When you're done with everything... You can look at my hands," Will says as he grabs a towel. There's the body. The cleaning. The routine. It's safe. Much safer than this.

Will leaves and he doesn't look at Hannibal. He doesn't want to see the shock and pain from being discarded so abruptly. 

* * *

The seconds pass by in a whirlwind of sensation, and Hannibal feels overwhelmed by everything. He can't possibly process all of the inputs, from the raggedness of Will's breathing, to the warmth of his skin. His focus narrows in on what it can, though it buzzes excitedly, jumping from the sight of Will's cock shooting thick into the water, to the feeling of Will's fingers in his hair. The latter hurts, a sharp, twisting, clumsy pain but it's tight and perfect and _Will_. The feeling of being touched, of having fingers in his hair, is almost enough to make Hannibal come, but he doesn't dare allow himself that vulnerability on top of everything else. The fact that Will is so close, the fact that he's gripping Hannibal so tightly as he comes, is enough to make Hannibal feel dizzy with emotion alone, let alone sensation.

And then, quite suddenly, the sensation is gone. It's abrupt, like ripping something vital out - a delayed agony that is initially overcome by shock and coldness. Hannibal freezes when Will wrenches away from him, and he's left breathing heavily and unbalanced when Will stands and immediately steps out of the tub, grabbing a towel. Hannibal hardly has time to find his thoughts, let alone his voice, and then Will is gone, his absence leaving a gaping wound behind that - once again - he must figure out how to mend before proceeding.

Emotion wells up within him like a slavering beast, feral and angry and despondent, and yet Hannibal's expression remains impassive. He gazes down at the bloodied, come-streaked water and how both cling to his clothes. The water is still warm but it feels cold without Will, and Hannibal silently locks something away within himself as he closes his eyes.

He gives himself one minute to mourn. Will's absence feels even more cruel now that he'd had a taste. 

Hannibal rises from the bath a minute later, arousal still pumping through him, but he's gone soft. It's a restless energy under his skin that he doesn't acknowledge. Instead he strips out of his clothing and turns on the shower enough to rinse his own skin off. Then he gets out, wanders to his room to change his clothes, and he gets to work,

He cleans the body up, as he always does. taking it to the workshop and treating it as any butcher would a hunk of meat. He takes the liver - as it looks healthy, and he hadn't sedated this one - and the heart, and then he goes about carving meat from the flanks and thighs, contemplating the meals he will make with Will's recent endeavor.

Once the body is taken care of - the parts stored away in the freezer and the waste collected to be dumped away later - Hannibal cleans the room. He drops to his knees to scrub the floor, sterilizing it properly before wandering upstairs to do the same to the bathroom. Only when he's there does he throw away his clothes and finally climb into the shower properly.

In minutes, he will dress and find Will and treat his hands, but the ache of frustration and _isolation_ is once again setting in. He could leave, but without Will, what would be the point? Hannibal has _chosen_ this, and perhaps, one day, if he is supremely lucky, Will might finally forgive him.


	2. Settling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both compromise, but there is still no true intimacy or closeness. No consideration. Nothing that Hannibal aches for so acutely. Yet even as he sits with his own tablet carefully propped up on his lap, sipping at an aged Bordeaux, he reasons that this is much better than _not_ having Will. This is better than the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧⁺⸜(●′▾‵●)⸝⁺✧
> 
> Update-o! Just a heads up that the dynamics in this story get uh... really kinda effed up? If you like one thing now or what comes up, there's no guarantee it will necessarily be that way at the end of this story. It's all very in flux!
> 
> Will written by Merry ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Hannibal written by Dapperscript ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

Life goes on for them. Hannibal gets rid of _most_ of the body and they will eat the rest of it when Hannibal prepares it for them. It's practical, after all. It's meat and there's no point in wasting it. Hannibal enjoys cooking. Will enjoys killing. It benefits both of them.

Hannibal cleans and scours until there is no trace of evidence left behind. No one suspects them, of course. They're the friendly but somewhat reserved same-sex couple that's moved into one of the older estates on the outskirts of the city. Hannibal goes to the market and buys locally whenever possible. They support the arts and fine dining establishments. They fly under the radar, not too popular, but not too reclusive to be noticeable either. It's a strange life that Will finds himself living, so different than the one he'd had with Molly and Walter...

Hannibal doesn't talk about _it_ and Will doesn't bring it up. It's there between them, existing in the silence. This step forward, what will it bring? What's _next?_

Will recovers. He tries to not open up the scabs and he stays in or on the sprawling property to not possibly attract attention to the minor wounds he's sustained from his last altercation. The man had been a scratcher. Will's arms have the worst of it, but nothing had needed stitches at least.

It's been a week since the bath incident and Will is in an armchair, a lamp on beside him. He has his legs crossed, a tablet comfortably resting on his lap as he browses the news. His finished whiskey tumbler rests on a glass coaster on the end table. Hannibal is in his own chair, by the simmering fireplace. Will doesn't much care for the fireplace, at least he likes it less than Hannibal. (He'd had a fireplace at Molly's... He'd burnt Hannibal's letters in it.)

"Hannibal, come here," Will says, lifting his gaze to the man. He beckons with a finger.

* * *

They exist in each others' company, as they have since the Fall. Hannibal quietly tends to Will's wounds as much as he's allowed (though in this he has slightly more say, as Will is not the one with a medical degree). While Will seems unhappy whenever Hannibal insists on changing bandages and checking wounds, he doesn't protest. Neither of them want visible scars, even when it's the scum of the town - or a few towns over - that begin to disappear.

Neither of them mention the incident in the bath. Hannibal burns the clothing and anything that could have lingering evidence, and he scours the bathroom a few times to ensure there is no residual blood caught in any of the creases or tiles.

He cleans, he cooks, he quietly basks in Will's compliments even if they're surface-level only, and life goes on. As much as Hannibal wants to bring up what he had witnessed, he doesn't. Will says nothing and so Hannibal smartly assumes that this is the way he must also operate.

The night is aging when they retire to the sitting room after dinner, dishes washed and put away. The warm haze of a good meal has settled over them both as night falls, and Hannibal quietly lights a small fire before retreating to his armchair. Of the two of them, he is significantly less fond of the cold, and after Dolarhyde's bullet, he'd become more susceptible to chills. Will doesn't enjoy the fireplace quite as much but he allows Hannibal this.

They both compromise, but there is still no true intimacy or closeness. No consideration. Nothing that Hannibal aches for so acutely. Yet even as he sits with his own tablet carefully propped up on his lap, sipping at an aged Bordeaux, he reasons that this is much better than _not_ having Will. This is better than the hospital.

Crickets have started to sing and chirp through the open, screened-in window (Will's concession for the fireplace; he'd wanted fresh air) by the time Will speaks up. Hannibal blinks, drawn out of his readings, and he looks up and over at Will. For a moment he is silent, his frown deep with confusion. Then he quietly sets his wine aside, folds the cover of his tablet back over, and gingerly rises. His abdomen still aches with sudden force sometimes, particularly when the nights are cold and damp. He doesn't wince, but there _is_ a flicker of discomfort within as he walks over to Will, wary but still curious.

"Do you need something, Will?" Hannibal asks, glancing questioningly to the empty whiskey tumbler on the table beside him.

* * *

It's cooler by Will, the window open to allow for some fresh air flow. Perhaps this is another show of cruelty to have Hannibal come closer to him, to come closer to the _cold_. But the words are already out and Will can't take them back. Hannibal is now curious as he regards him before setting the wine and tablet down. There's an insidious curl of deep satisfaction at seeing Hannibal rise and then walk over to him.

_Here, Hannibal, come here, boy..._

Yeah, perhaps in this, Hannibal is really like a dog. _His_ dog. Will has the ludicrous thought of getting him a collar. Something soft, leather. Nothing gauche, but nothing cheap either. He could fit his fingers underneath it and yank Hannibal--

Hannibal suspects that Will wants him to get more alcohol. It's a logical assumption as he's done this before. Will's all but batted his eyelashes, using his manners to get a refill from Hannibal.

That's not what he wants tonight, though. Will hadn't been entirely certain of what he'd wanted _before,_ but he does now...

"I'd like you to kneel beside me here," Will says, his hand gesturing to the floor beside the chair. "By my feet, so I can touch you if I want. _Please_." Apparently, he's not over the idea of Hannibal being like a dog.

Will's face remains resolute as he watches Hannibal. He suspects that this might be too much, but he won't take back his request.

* * *

This isn't the first time that Will has requested Hannibal to get him a refill. It's a fairly innocuous task, one that Hannibal can allow now that the drugs are no longer in Will's system. At first it had been due to an injury that Will had received after the fall, a sprain that had lingered longer because he'd kept using his leg. Hannibal retrieving things for him - despite his own through-and-through - had become standard. It's an amiable exchange generally; Will is polite enough to ask, and he seems to enjoy watching Hannibal struggle to carry out his tasks. Yet as the days pass and Hannibal's strength returns to him more and more, the discomfort in each request is steadily fading. He's expecting nothing more than a simple request here.

So when Will points at the _floor_ , Hannibal is quietly surprised. He doesn't frown, though his head does cant to the side ever so slightly. It's the small micro-expressions that truly show his surprise, followed immediately by a hopeful suspicion that burns deep. They've not explored what happened the week before, and while they've had many calm conversations since, _this_ is immediately more weighted.

Hannibal kneels to undress Will after his kills when he's allowed, and to clean the floors, but he has never knelt outside of that. What Will is asking him borders on insulting, and Hannibal's lips thin in visible displeasure at the _thought_. Yet the idea of Will possibly touching him... the notion that he _could_ initiate contact makes Hannibal's pulse quicken even if his expression remains more or less blank.

It's a struggle, but in the end, the decision is clear. Hannibal glances at the floor, at the hard, cold hardwood, and then to the window open next to Will. The pale blue dress shirt that Hannibal wears is thin, and the herringbone vest over top offers minimal warmth. He's fairly sure he understands what this is.

' _Please_ ,' Will says, and a shiver shoots up Hannibal's spine. This man will be the death of him yet.

"Of course," Hannibal says mildly, not asking for a cushion or his tablet. Instead he sets one hand on his knee and then slowly, gingerly lowers himself down.

The floor is cold beneath his knees, which ache upon being made to rest upon the hardwood. It is not a comfortable position but Hannibal settles into it, sitting back on his heels as he eases himself into Will's space. He's close enough to touch, and despite the indignity, his pulse is quick. Hannibal looks over, watching Will curiously, expectantly.

"Is this something you wish to talk about?"

* * *

Is this too far? Will this be too much? There is indignity in this request. Possible humiliation or shame, too. _Kneeling_ for someone is an act of submission usually. It's a blatant display of a power imbalance. While they've been living an obvious power imbalance, this is akin to shoving Hannibal's nose in it. Hannibal would never do this for someone else.

Will thinks it's the _please_ that adds the final nail to the coffin. He can still remember Alana informing him of what Hannibal had wanted -- that Hannibal had wanted _him_ to ask and say please. Will has no qualms saying please now. He knows that Hannibal likes it. Hannibal likes him requesting things because it's Will actively seeking him out, wanting something of him.

When Hannibal gets to his knees, immediately Will is thinking that next time - for there will definitely be a next time, Will's sure - that he'll get Hannibal a pillow for his knees. Will's not a complete asshole. He doesn't want Hannibal in too much discomfort, just a little.

The sight is pleasing to Will. Hannibal still looks refined, but he's on his damn knees _for_ him. Will feels the beginnings of arousal set in, but it's not important. The question jerks Will from his musings.

"I think it's something _you_ wish to talk about," Will says, turning it around. "Just be quiet for a few minutes. I want to admire you. Enjoy you like this. Put your hands on your lap and focus on them, please."

* * *

It's a risk to even mention that there is a _this_ in the current situation, that there is something contributing to Will's actions beyond a simple desire to humiliate. He could lash out, or worse. Hannibal is honestly expecting Will to be offended, to lash out, to shut down or dismiss him as he had in the bath a week ago, but instead of snarling at him or Will's lips thinning, he just looks startled. There's no real anger, just a quick flicker of something in Will's eyes that is there and gone the next moment. Hannibal gets the feeling that he had interrupted some stray thought in Will's mind, and despite his hesitation, he cannot help but be curious. Curiosity has always been in his nature when it comes to this man, regardless of which stage of their would-be-relationship the two of them have been skirting around.

Will's rejoinder is not wrong. Hannibal stills, frowning mildly, but he doesn't argue. This _is_ something he wishes to talk about, true, but he's aware that that likely isn't about to happen. Instead he breathes in slowly and deeply and levels his gaze in Will's direction, listening to him as he kneels on the floor beside Will's closest knee. The heat of his body makes Hannibal ache to press in closer, but he doesn't. He watches, and when Will finally tells him what he wants (surprising and unsettling as it feels), Hannibal's frown deepens. Then he shifts.

The notion of Will _admiring_ him and _enjoying_ him soothe Hannibal's ragged, rankled edges, and the _please_ is like a treat, sending a shiver quickly through Hannibal's spine. He wets his lips slowly, chasing the residual taste of wine, and then he complies. Instead of nodding, Hannibal sits back slowly on his heels and places both of his hands on his lap. He lays each one over its matching thigh and looks down at them as instructed.

It goes against Hannibal's nature to be so accommodating, and yet this is also a form of mindfulness. He chooses to think of it like that as he studies his hands, his knuckles. They're not scarred the way Will's are, and once again Hannibal feels a small flicker of irritation over that last man that Will had killed. The scratches etched into Will's arms had been almost blasphemous. Thankfully they are almost healed now.

He kneels obediently, remaining still save for his breathing, but as the seconds stretch out, Hannibal begins to note the quiet breeze from outside, carrying the chill within. The cold air centers around the floor, drawing his shoulders in a little tighter, but he doesn't protest, nor does he make a sound. He can feel Will's gaze upon him, and it feels thrilling.

* * *

Truthfully, Will does want to look and admire _and_ enjoy Hannibal in this provocative position. Hannibal sits, still proud and straight, posture as good as it can be in such a state. There remains a sense of refinement present as Hannibal complies and rests each hand atop a thigh. Hannibal still appears graceful when he stares down at his hands. Will's fairly sure he couldn't manage such a feat and he's honestly impressed.

He also doesn't want to talk about _this_. This... He's not even sure what this exactly is. It's not that he wants to demean Hannibal, to have him humiliated and kicked while he's already down. (Because Hannibal _is_ mostly down and it's Will who's shoved him to the floor.)

Will knows denying Hannibal any and all points of contact would be difficult for him. That's why he'd stated said he wanted to admire Hannibal. If Hannibal knows Will is watching him, that he's enjoying this, Hannibal can likely bear it.

That's what Will is hoping for. So Hannibal sits quietly and Will gazes down at him. He takes in Hannibal's familiar form, from his now longer hair (much better than how it had been shorn from prison) to the curve of his neck. Hannibal has broad shoulders that wear clothing well... Hannibal is masculine, but not in a testosterone-fuelled way. There's an elegance to him that Will has rather grown to like. Wil's eyes flick between his tablet and Hannibal. He could read, but he actually _is_ interested in taking in Hannibal like this -- especially as he doesn't need to meet Hannibal's eyes. This is a rare thing.

Will waits another two minutes before sitting up straighter in his chair. His hand reaches out and a few fingers stroke through Hannibal's soft hair.

"I like you like this," Will murmurs. It feels strange to be talking first. "You probably think I want to humiliate you... But it's not that. It really isn't, Hannibal." Will sighs, raking his fingers in a little more.

* * *

Hannibal focuses on his hands, but there is something else to this encounter. The undercurrent of power he feels is both pleasant and unexpected. Will may be the one in control in their new life, but it is Hannibal who chooses to _allow_ it. And yet at this moment, feeling the weight of Will's gaze as Hannibal looks down at the backs of his hands, he feels oddly off-balance, shaken, and powerful all at once.

He breathes slowly, focusing on each inhale and exhale as he waits. Powerful as he does feel, Hannibal is also quite aware that this _could_ be a deception. Will could have called for this to entice him to anticipate, only to deny him. Yet as Hannibal feels the very real heat of Will's gaze, he begins to doubt that this is being done to hurt him. Will is simply drinking in his fill, and the very thought is heady enough to make Hannibal shiver.

Remaining precisely where he is, Hannibal allows himself to drift, focused as ordered but also buzzing with anticipation. So when a few minutes have passed and Hannibal feels the first touch of Will's fingers through his hair, he tenses in shock (that this is _real_ , that Will is touching him unbloodied and without violence) and then immediately relaxes.

His exhale is thick with emotion that Will can't see as Hannibal's head is down, but he is unashamed of the way the single touch affects him. When that single touch bleeds into a longer, fuller rake of Will's fingers through Hannibal's hair, the gravity of it threatens to wound him.

There's an agonized sound trapped somewhere in Hannibal's throat, but he doesn't let it out. Instead he closes his eyes and sets his jaw, his breathing slightly quicker, but not unpleasantly so. Will's voice is uncharacteristically soft and the desire to lean in and press his forehead to Will's knee is almost overwhelming. He doesn't. Hannibal lets his eyes sting and lets his muscles tremble faintly as Will touches him. Will can't possibly know how much this alone means to him.

"What am I permitted to do?" Hannibal asks quietly, risking his voice. He wants to press, to ask _what_ this is, then, but he doubts that Will is going to permit him that. "If I encourage your touch, lean into it, if I speak... will this cease? If not for humiliation, then what are your rules?"

* * *

Will knows that he's not entirely in control of this moment. Hannibal may be kneeling, but Will's not Hannibal's master. Hannibal could overpower him. Hannibal could do worse -- Hannibal could decide to not play anymore. Hannibal could refuse and leave. Each time Will requests something, there's the chance of Hannibal turning him down, of wisening up. This push and pull between them is a calculated risk, but Will can't see himself stopping.

Will isn't bothered that the first reaction of touch has Hannibal tensing. Will has been withholding, touching Hannibal rarely. Usually just casual, a brush of his hand when Hannibal gives him his morning coffee. At least, that's how it had been until the incident in the bath. And now this.

Like this, he may be able to hide from Hannibal's eyes, but this position also has Hannibal's expression shrouded from him. Will is surprised to find himself slightly bothered by this realization. He's unfairly selfish, for Will wants to see but not be _seen_ in return. He doesn't think love works that way. (He'd seen Molly, but she'd only glimpsed a side of him.)

Will thinks he feels Hannibal tremble. He doesn't know what to do with that observation, however. While he wants to be the single most important thing in Hannibal's life, Will is still unsure how to feel about it when faced with the evidence of it. Sometimes it's emboldening while other times it's crushing to face Hannibal's devotion.

The questions aren't unfair. They're perfectly reasonable, actually. Hannibal doesn't want to mess this up. For that not to happen, Hannibal needs rules. Hannibal wants to understand. (Truth be told, Will does too.)

"I... I didn't have set rules going into this," Will admits. It only seems fair to do so, to give a little. "But unless I tell you otherwise, assume that if I touch you first, you can encourage it -- respond to it. Same goes with speaking."

Will gently grips Hannibal's hair and eases his head down against his closest leg. His hand continues to pet Hannibal's hair and Will's eyes are focused on Hannibal as he continues. "And... It feels safer to deal with you like this. Moderated. Controlled. I want you to continue exactly as you have been."

Will means that he wants Hannibal to continue to bend.

* * *

Touch is integral to development, and to continued existence, and Hannibal is not ashamed of his visceral reaction to Will's fingers in his hair. To deprive a human of touch is akin to abuse, and Alana had made sure her abuse had been edged properly. Will, by comparison, is not as cruel, though he skirts the edges of it, giving just enough to whet Hannibal's appetite, to keep him from spiraling, and then pulling away. Yet Hannibal understands. He understands that Will does not yet know how to handle him - to handle his choice, his decision, Hannibal's refusal to let the both of them die - and so he has been steadily finding his footing and testing. Each test is cruel in its own way, but Hannibal understands _why_. Will's cruelty makes sense; this is survival for him. This is guarding himself against Hannibal's nature, leveling the playing field and exacting his own punishment all at once. That Will is even _touching_ him now is a miracle.

Yet it is one that Hannibal doesn't wish to question too much, for the sensation of Will's fingers in his hair cuts right through him like a knife. He feels the slow, careful curl and it feels almost connected to his heart. A rush of sensation and emotion - overwhelming and sharp with deprivation and a frantic need - flood over him. Hannibal is not ashamed of the way his eyes burn, by the vague sensation of dampness he can feel on one cheek as he basks in Will's touch, hardly daring to move for fear of scaring Will away.

So when Will answers him quietly, his voice surprisingly low and almost _kind_ , Hannibal swallows back a thickness in his throat and listens. At this moment, Will's words are akin to gospel. Hannibal allows each one to fill him, and he feels no humiliation over his desire to comply. Had he not given everything up years ago for this man? What is a fraction of dignity in the grand scheme of things, when Will is _touching_ him and speaking to him with a quiet, lost warmth.

Fingers gently grip in his hair and a shiver races down his spine, but it isn't until Will draws him in and Hannibal feels his cheek press against Will's thigh that the quiet, wounded sound finally works its way free. It's almost silent, but the _emotion_ in it is clear. Hannibal takes Will's words to heart and he presses in closer, careful, not greedy, not gorging himself on this allowance lest Will take it away. Instead he ducks his head and turns it to the side, looking quietly, painfully reverent as he nuzzles his cheek against the warmth of Will's slacks, his stubble catching on the fabric enough that he knows Will is going to feel it.

"Of course, Will," Hannibal breathes, and even his voice sounds somewhat wrecked by emotion. How this man decimates him. _Anything for you._ "You have much to face and work through in regards to the two of us. If this is what you need, so be it."

* * *

There is some great depth of emotion that threatens to well up at the sound that Hannibal makes when Will draws him closer. It's a soft wrecked thing, _wounded_... And Will can't help but think back to Bedelia's words about coming across a wounded bird... Will could crush him right now. He could. It would be easy to do so. Will could wrench Hannibal's head back, he could scowl or laugh, shaking his head as he got up and left Hannibal Lecter on his knees in their living room. Will wouldn't be surprised that Hannibal may suspect such a thing of him too.

Of course, Hannibal probably would never kneel for him again. Will can see the grey storm clouds that would settle over them after the fact. It would be irreparable damage, Will thinks. It'd be Will breaking Hannibal, breaking the next veritable teacup.

But when Hannibal nuzzles his cheek against him, desperate and hungry, Will knows he can't. He won't be chucking the teacup to the floor. He won't be shattering Hannibal into pieces. Yes, the desire is there, an old seed of bitterness wanting to sprout and for its roots to grow and grow.

Will resists. He glances down at Hannibal's face. Hannibal's eyes are closed. Will listens to Hannibal's words, to him _agreeing_ to this. This unnamed thing between them that's slowly taking shape as each day passes.

"Yeah, there's a good boy." The words slip out, a warm praise as Will's hand strokes down Hannibal's hair. Even though he hadn't planned on saying it, Will doesn't take the words back. After all, Hannibal _is_ being good. "You want to be my good boy, don't you, Hannibal?" He presses his nails into Hannibal's scalp, lightly scratching.

Will's aware that this is how he's been with his dogs. He doesn't know what that says about him or them. He doesn't want to think about it. This is calming. This is safe. Will's not ready to stop it.

* * *

Hannibal turns to press his cheek to Will's thigh but he doesn't open his eyes. Part of it is that he doesn't wish to see it if Will notes his emotion with derision or ridicule, and part of it is that he wants to bask in this simplistic pleasure. Touch - so long denied to him in any great capacity - is a reward of the highest caliber for Hannibal now. He's three years touch starved, and even before that, there had been little. A handshake, a touch he had instigated, a friendly clap on the back from his colleagues, but nothing like this. Nothing he had ached for so completely, emulating his own desires upon Will. A hand touching his face, fingers curled in his hair, an embrace, to breathe in another like this... Hannibal had not been certain he'd ever feel this again. Certainly not from Will.

He has been ruined by sentiment and crippled by love. To love such a wretched creature - the both of them - is to court the very situation they find themselves in. Two solitary, dark creatures seeking comfort and companionship in one another. The soft touch of a muzzle, the caring lick of a tongue, or the sudden snarling rend of teeth and claws, the taste of thick blood inside their maws. Will could wrench his head back and metaphorically go for his throat just as easily as Hannibal could do the same.

Hannibal could _stop_. So could Will. Somehow, feeling the warmth of Will's touch despite the chill of the air, Hannibal knows that denying Will this control would break him as much as _being_ denied would break Hannibal. So he keeps his eyes closed, and he basks. He breathes in the faint scent of cologne and arousal and allows it to exist.

Yet when Will's nails scratch, Hannibal's breath hitches, but that is not what captures Hannibal's attention. It is the praise that falls so naturally from Will's lips.

Hannibal opens one eye, red-rimmed as it is, and when he looks up at Will, there is a brief flicker of confusion that immediately solidifies into understanding. He does nothing for a moment, going completely still, for Will's touch is one thing. Kneeling is also one. Submitting, giving Will what he desires is all something that Hannibal can grant. But being treated like a _dog?_ That is... complicated.

There's a flicker of something in Hannibal's eyes, something prideful, something stubborn, a wild animal resisting domesticity. And yet in this moment, despite the struggle, Hannibal swallows, clearly thinks on the answer he wants to give, and then leans up into the scratch of Will's nails.

He meets Will's eyes quietly. "Yes."

* * *

Will's aware that there is a kink or fetish for this sort of thing. Pet play. Puppy play. Treating a partner like a dog. Collar, leashes... It can go far. It can involve the 'dog' eating or drinking out of food dishes on the floor, it can involve them emulating canine behavior such as barking. Will's fairly certain he has no interest in them going to those extremes. He has no interest in seeing Hannibal demeaned like that. Will has no interest in seeing _anyone_ bark or growl like a dog.

But obedience? Hannibal's unwavering loyalty and affection? Hannibal's desperation for his attention? Hannibal's interest and care? Will likes these things. He likes these things possibly too much, even. It's an insistent itch that, thus far, Hannibal is allowing him to scratch. The relief is heady. The satisfaction is gargantuan. It's like the slow introduction of a drug and his system is just beginning to recognize and love the high.

Will should be afraid. He has the feeling he should be cautious at the least, that he's maybe biting off more than he can chew, but isn't that Hannibal in a nutshell? Hannibal has always been too much. Like this, Will is attempting to reduce him some, to see him only in a certain light. Crouched, smaller, but still close and touching. It's manageable.

One eye peeks open from his words. Undoubtedly Hannibal has caught his meaning. The whites of Hannibal's eyes are not so white. This touch and intimacy have been a monumental thing for Hannibal. Will watches, fascinated, as the confusion gives way to stubborn pride as the wheels in Hannibal's mind turn.

Hannibal is okay with the orders (as long as they're polite and reasonable). Hannibal is okay with submitting and kneeling, but what about _this_? Hannibal being treated like a dog is new territory.

Hannibal swallows and Will knows that if there hasn't been a protest yet, that none is coming. If Hannibal were truly offended, he would have pushed away and retreated. Instead, Hannibal pushes into the scratch of nails and Will knows he's metaphorically slipped on the collar around Hannibal's neck.

"Good," Will praises again, lips quirking into a softer smile. "I'm pleased that you're doing this." His fingers slide forward and Will brushes the hair off of Hannibal's forehead, fingertips grazing the skin there. "Being so good for me, just happy to be close, right?"

Will glances up as he trails a few fingers down the side of Hannibal's face. He wants to be able to learn Hannibal to the point where he's memorized, where Will can close his eyes and map Hannibal out like a skilled explorer.

* * *

Hannibal should not allow this. This is not the man that he is, so touch-starved and desperate that he's willing to take scraps not only from Will's hands, but from the dirtied floor. And yet even as his pride hisses its protest, Hannibal realizes that while he doesn't _want_ to be that desperate, that doesn't mean that he isn't. The idea of protesting, of dragging himself away from the careful, questing fingers in his hair is almost agonizing, for Hannibal has been denied this for so long. Will touches him when he's passing him drinks, or after a particularly good meal, or when he's flying high on a kill. He never touches him like this, like he _wants_ to, like it's lazy, like it's--

... like it's unearned.

The thought strikes Hannibal as he kneels there, and he finds himself suddenly thrown at the idea. He thinks back immediately to the times that Will has touched him, and while he doubts that Will had been _consciously_ touching him as a reward, it is... markedly impressive that he has chosen this particular method to segue into. Will has been training him, albeit casually, slowly, and it means that the touch of his fingers through Hannibal's hair makes Hannibal feel as praised as the words do.

He should protest, should allow himself the bitterness that he feels. But he doesn't. Instead he shivers when Will's fingers stroke his bangs back. When those same fingers slide down the side of his face, Hannibal's breath hitches on a soft, desperate sound that might have been a near-sob from a lesser man. He immediately turns his head, leaning into the touch against his face, and he drags in a deep breath through his nose, as if attempting to center himself.

The thought that the praise should not sound so good strikes him, but Hannibal dismisses it almost immediately, for at this moment in time, he doesn't _care_ how desperate he seems. One quick glance shows only warmth in Will's eyes, and the sight of it threatens to rend him open completely. Hannibal closes his own eyes again, and he doesn't think as he reaches up, his fingers tentatively touching the back of Will's hand. He presses down, hoping to encourage Will to touch him more, but he's already nodding.

"Yes, Will." Hannibal swallows. "I missed you," he adds, on a whisper so soft that it's almost inaudible.

* * *

This touch is more intimate. It's... loving? Yes, it's affectionate. It's caring. It's not a casual brush that could possibly be construed as an accident. It's not him forcing Hannibal's hand to wrap around his throat. This is... petting. Sure, petting Hannibal like he's a dog at his feet, but they both know Hannibal isn't a dog. Hannibal may be a beast, a beast capable of ripping out a throat with his teeth, but Will has torn flesh, too. He remembers the consistency of Cordell's flesh in his mouth before spitting it out on his plate. (Hannibal had looked both pleased and amused...)

It's not as strange as it could be. As it likely _should_ be. This is more subdued than what had transpired in the bath, and yet it's significantly more meaningful. This is Will touching Hannibal. Gently. This is more like the embrace after bringing down Dolarhyde. The wrecked sound that Hannibal has given is evidence enough. Will doesn't even need to meet Hannibal's eyes to know (although he doesn't look away when Hannibal looks to his -- maybe _not_ being cruel isn't that difficult after all).

Will isn't expecting Hannibal to reach out to him, to reach up to his hand and press -- a flagrant bid for _more_. At first, Will does nothing. He just stares down at the point of connection that Hannibal is forcing.

_'I missed you.'_

Will's mouth opens to respond, but what is he supposed to say? Sure, he's been with Hannibal, but not really, not in the way Hannibal wants. He's played at being Hannibal's partner, but they haven't been romantic, they haven't been close. Always near, but still at a distance... Will's other hand comes to rest on Hannibal's. He gives it a squeeze before lifting it off.

"I'm here," Will whispers, an attempt to soothe. "I'm right here." He brings both hands to Hannibal's hair now as he strokes lightly. With Hannibal so desperate, down on his knees and all but clinging to him, it's easy to do this. Will can't see himself touching like this under normal circumstances. Hannibal standing proud and elegant, Will reaching out to stroke his face? Doubtful.

But Will can here. A hand comes to cup Hannibal's face. "You're my good boy, Hannibal. Doing just as I've asked. Just sit here, be with me."

* * *

It is vulnerability unlike any that Hannibal has shown before. His desires have been carefully tempered these past few months, centering around recovery and this growing dynamic between them. He has been doctor and mentor, warden and friend, parent and would-be-lover, showing Will the finery that exists, the culture, the life that Hannibal had once ached to show him upon the streets of Florence. Yet he has also taken Will under his wing, has tended his wounds, has minimized scarring, and has carefully massaged the scars into releasing their tightness to ensure Will has as much range of motion as he can. Beyond all of that, though, Hannibal has _taught_ Will.

He's taught him how to fight, how to hunt, the proper way to incapacitate using less-brutal means than Will had been taught in his academy days. He's taught Will how to choke out an assailant much larger, has taught him where to hold and strike in order to shatter bone, has taught him how to cause pain. And Will, ever the small pup hungry after his first taste of blood, has taken to it beautifully. Hannibal's desires may be tempered, but they are also channeled through Will. Hannibal does not kill if he can help it; he basks in the sight of Will's darkness, of his eagerness and his hunger to injure. It sustains him, and yet despite sharing such intimacy, he and Will have not _been_ intimate.

Not like this.

For like _this_ , Hannibal feels scoured open. The threat of _why_ Will is allowing this is a distant concern. What care is it of his whether Will is acting out of a form of humiliation? Hannibal doubts that he is; this simply does for Will what life has not been able to. Hannibal is a proud man. He'd been proud and in control while incarcerated, while muzzled and denied even the most basic human rights. Yet he had still stood tall and unshakable even then.

Like this, willingly lowering himself to his knees, allowing vulnerability and desperation to show through, he is giving Will what he needs to come to terms with _them_. Hannibal understands the logic behind it, and like this, after being denied for so long, Will's touch feels like it's near-cauterizing. Long-gouged wounds close under the gentle stroke of Will's fingers, and Hannibal leans into it like he'll drown if he doesn't. Like this, he is real. He is tangible. Will can look upon him as a man (or less) and not something Eldritch and powerful.

Will's words tear through the miasma of his mind, and while Hannibal almost protests as his hand is moved away from Will's, the feeling of _both_ of Will's hands in his hair soothe the ache. He breathes in deep, feeling his muscles tremble with exertion, emotion, and cold, but when Will cups his face, Hannibal struggles with himself - with this dynamic - for but a second longer. Then his shoulders ease. He leans into Will's touch but settles against Will's thigh, and his hands - once clenched in his slacks - relax to once again set his palms on his thighs.

' _Just sit here, be with me_ ,' Will says, and Hannibal leans against him, leaning some of his weight against Will's leg as he complies. He breathes deep and slow and he relaxes, though not before turning enough to half-press his lips to Will's palm.

"Where else would I go?"

* * *

Since finding himself alive, Hannibal has been close and accessible to Will -- never too far from reach and always within range for Will to call out to him. Will had been despondent during the first few tenuous weeks. He'd barely talked save for answering Hannibal's questions regarding his pain and physical needs. But living locked away in his head had been supremely depressing so Will had gradually come out of his shell. He was alive, why waste it?

Safe topics were at first chosen before Will steadily delved into the darker. One thing Will knew for certain was that he'd have to consult Hannibal on the subject of killing. They'd spoken at length of the practical matters, how they would need to redo the basement, of how to abduct and dispose of the body. Early on Will had stated that he wanted to kill alone and that it was non-negotiable. Hannibal would only entertain that _if_ Will was trained properly and safe.

So Will had learned. Will had the master himself at his disposal. They'd bonded over the sparring and lessons, over late night conversations about Will's intent on killing those who deserved it and how Hannibal could facilitate. Having a goal had helped focus Will, given him a way to channel his aggression and frustration. He'd decided to be beautiful and ruthless, just how Hannibal had always wanted him.

Having a favorable reputation in this city had also been imperative, so Will had learned to smile shyly and stick close to Hannibal. He'd been seen as the quieter partner, slightly out-of-his-element and new to the more lavish life. Also hopelessly American (not untrue). It suited Will just fine. Hannibal effortlessly translated for him when needed and navigated the social circles while Will sometimes tagged along.

This other side of them is so very different to their public persona. The day to day domesticity they've established is tinged in this dynamic, but definitely not to this degree. Will can't help but wonder if that will change going forward. How often can he get away with this? Does he want to try?

Soothing Hannibal... Offering words and touches of comfort... Will doesn't know how he exactly feels about it. A part of him must think Hannibal deserves it, or perhaps it's more difficult to be cruel to a man who's willingly gone to his knees for you (who knows he's being treated a bit like a dog).

He both feels and sees Hannibal give in and relax. It's oddly like a victory for Will and it's something he wants to see more of, to explore Hannibal submitting but possibly finding a shred of comfort in it (right now it feels like Hannibal is just overwhelmed with emotion).

A kiss is gently given to his palm and Will feels shaken by the simplicity, by the sheer _desperation_ of it. It's also rather forward. And then the words come. The same fucking question Will had uttered to Hannibal while having his bloody knuckles tended to.

('Where _else would I go?_ ' At the time, Will had been lost. Is it the same for Hannibal?)

"We both know you could retreat into your mind," Will answers a bit stiffly. "But I guess you wouldn't want to miss anything..." Will's hand slides back into Hannibal's hair (feels safer to keep them moving). "I don't want to talk anymore."

Instead, Will's fingers stroke through Hannibal's hair for another few minutes before he announces that he's done and Will excuses himself.

* * *

The words are a risk that Hannibal doesn't notice until it is far too late, but at the time that he says them, he doesn't notice that anything is different. His focus has narrowed in on this, on Will. On the touch to his face and the gentle stroke of fingers through his hair. He knows that it won't be forever, that Will is going to come to his senses once more before long. Yet as he kneels there on the cold, hard floor and feels the chill from the open window raise gooseflesh over his skin, Will's touch is all that keeps him grounded.

He doesn't know that there is a problem until Will replies, and the bitterness in his voice makes Hannibal still. Something heavy settles in his chest, for he knows that that bitterness marks the beginning of the end of this. Will's hand leaves his face and Hannibal aches to chase it but doesn't. Instead he heeds Will's quiet warning and falls silent, throwing himself into each second of Will's continued attention. Each stroke of fingers through his hair has Hannibal soaking it up. He breathes quietly, desperate for these few minutes to linger indefinitely.

But ultimately, as Hannibal had known it would, it ends. Will's fingers retreat and while he does tell Hannibal that he's done before he stands and leaves, it doesn't make the reality of it less jarring. Hannibal stays as Will walks away and the memory of fingers in his hair burns even more now that he knows what it feels like to have Will once again.

He picks himself up on stiff knees and retreats to sit in front of the fireplace. The warmth only warms him on a surface level. It takes him a long time to settle again.


	3. Shudder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they're back in the vehicle, a small fancy gift bag in Will's possession, Will glances over at Hannibal.
> 
> "You wanted to kill them, didn't you?" He asks.

As has become their default, they don't talk about it. Life continues as it has been. Will's knuckles heal; the scratches on his arms fade, and eventually Hannibal announces that they need to go out again. There are appearances to uphold, and while their neighbors - kind, typically rich people with no major interest in the two men who had taken over the uninhabited estate - are not close by, that doesn't mean that tongues won't wag with gossip if they isolate themselves. A few times Hannibal has spoken to their closest neighbor, but only in passing and in casual greeting. It's comfortable and simple, playing the polite married couple. Will's bumbling German has earned him nothing but amused praise; they think him charming for trying, though find relief in Hannibal's fluency.

But he and Will have been cooped up for too long. People will talk, and neither of them wants that. 

So Hannibal announces his intentions over dinner. If Will protests, he doesn't show it. Instead they eat in polite silence, and when they retire to bed that evening, Hannibal tells him to be ready for a trip into the city tomorrow. 

Berlin is, admittedly, beautiful. Perhaps it is not Florence, nor is it Paris, but there is a stoic, proud calm about the tall buildings and busy streets that somehow manage to retain their charm just the same. People are friendly enough, though not interested in overt gossip the way Paris can herald. Still, there are a few people like that, and it is why Hannibal dresses smartly the following afternoon. 

The chill in the air remains, so he dons a long, brown, double-breasted woolen overcoat that complements the notes of red in the suit he wears beneath. Warm, soft leather gloves complete the picture, and though Hannibal no longer requires it, he reaches silently for the polished cane he had needed to use in order to get around those first few months. He's been using it less and less, owing his recovery to the skill of the doctors in Berlin to anyone who asks, but on cold days like this, it is expected.

"Have you anything you need in the city?" Hannibal asks as he buttons his jacket, then reaches for the keys on the hook. "I'll be stopping by the market. Both of us must be seen together by times."

* * *

In a way, he'd played a role with Molly too. Self-deprecating ex-cop. That guy who didn't kill all those people. One half of the "Murder Husband" pairing. The thing is, she hadn't cared about his past, she hadn't been interested in the mud slung by Freddie. What she had been interested in was his affinity with the outdoors and to dogs -- his apparent 'kind heart,' the fact that he wasn't trying to get into her pants. It had been good for him to assimilate into their routine (and all too easy). He'd found safety and familiarity with it. He'd had fewer nightmares sleeping beside Molly and he wasn't bad at the whole step-father thing either.

Their aliases are Nikolas and Ethan and they're married, newlyweds even. Will hadn't even balked when Hannibal had given him his new identification and back story. Ethan is an ex-cop scooped up by the cultured Doctor Fischer. They've all but ran off to Europe together for an extended honeymoon-slash-vacation. (The less they had to lie about, the better.)

They don't always shop together, they don't always attend functions together either, but Will has to put in appearances here and there. And honestly, he doesn't mind them as much now. He likes being immersed in the culture, in observing and not having to talk much.

That morning, he chooses to dress in dark grey slacks and a snug black dress shirt that flatters him. His wool coat is less involved than Hannibal's, but it's still more expensive than what he'd owned previously. He wraps a crimson silk scarf around his neck. Will's hair is unruly and curling, he's grown it out to hide the scar on his forehead. (The fewer people have to look at, the better). He already knows how they look... Hannibal, older and more established than him, Will, younger and more awkward, the veritable boytoy of sorts. It can't be helped.

"Nothing that I can think of," Will answers. "As always, I'll follow your lead." 

Just like he follows Hannibal out to the car. It's not a Bentley, but it's still nice. They don't talk as they drive into the city, but music fills their ride and Will feels fine. He's come a long way since their first outings.

While they're walking amidst the rows of the farmer's market, Will takes Hannibal's free arm. Occasionally he leans his head on Hannibal's shoulder when Hannibal stops to check out produce. They look comfortable with each other. They look in love. Will smiles easily, but they're surface level gestures.

* * *

This is perhaps the cruelest part of the life that he and Will now share. This false domesticity is but a shade of what Hannibal actually does desire, but it is but a facade, a front used to throw other people off of their trail. What is perhaps the worst is that he and Will are _good_ at it. Initially, during the first trips, Will had played such a perfect doting newlywed husband - helping Hannibal in the farmer's market, assisting him in walking with his cane, sparing him small, secret smiles - that Hannibal had needed to keep reminding himself that this is not who they are. Will's smiles had not reached his eyes, his interest in the produce had been dull, and he'd only helped Hannibal walk to ensure they blended in properly. Even now, months later, Will is used to his cover, his specific person suit. 

His smiles are polite and easy, and he effortlessly presses in against Hannibal's side as they wander through the market. Hannibal leans against his cane, and Will takes his free arm when he feels like it. It's a false companionship, but the ache of having Will so close but _pretending_ stings. Hannibal still allows it, still encourages it, for while he is not acting as much as Will is, Nikolas Fischer is a character as well. 

He regards Will with fond exasperation and dips his shoulder when Will leans in against him. He explains how to select the ripest produce and when he does touch Will, his touch is surer. He guides him around with a hand on the small of Will's back, an air of confidence about him. And when Hannibal catches small smiles thrown their way - undoubtedly finding the picture they make pleasing - he wishes, just for a moment, that this wasn't a lie.

But it is. It doesn't make the trip to the market any less enjoyable, as despite the chill in the air, the sun is shining warmly through the large windows, and Hannibal gets everything that he needs to accent the dish he plans on making that evening.

Once the groceries are stored in the car - fruits and vegetables, and fresh, baked bread - Hannibal quietly urges Will to get in, and the next stop is more for pleasure than anything else. While Hannibal knows better than to take Will to an opera or parade him around a crowded art exhibit, they have found mild compromises. Hannibal's interest in the old and the antique - and the history around select items - may not appeal to Will in the same way that it does to him, but Will seems to enjoy the quiet and the old, musty scent of books and history, and the stories. Visiting a local antique store is on his docket, but it is not the antiques that he takes Will to first, but a separate building close by. 

The scent coming from within is sweet and aromatic, though in a different way from the baked bread. The scent is one of finely-crafted perfumes and colognes, and as Hannibal leads Will inside and procures a few samples for him, he quietly beckons Will to offer him one wrist as he applies the first sample to his skin.

"You don't have a cologne to call your own. A scent you find settling. If you find something you enjoy, I would like to purchase it for you," Hannibal says, to the pleasure of the shop owner (who is eavesdropping) and the possible scorn of a few other patrons (who are frowning and muttering lowly).

* * *

Will doesn't mind doing this, doesn't mind playing coy lovers, the happy newlyweds. But when they're out and doing this, Will can't help but think of Bedelia, of Hannibal running off to Europe with _her_ (instead of _him_ ) and the two of them playing at being married. She undoubtedly could move in Hannibal's circles better than Will ever could. She probably flourished. He understands it's in the past, that there is no logical reason to be jealous, but sometimes Will wonders if Bedelia looked better at Hannibal's side than he does…

Will thinks he suited Molly. He fit in. They fit well together, but it wasn't all of him. He hadn't been fully there, a shade of him present in the family photos they had done. But Hannibal slides right in next to him, their seams surely overlapping. After Muskrat Farm Will had tried to tear them apart, to rip Hannibal out, but fate had other plans. Soon enough they'll be fusing together. (And Will is afraid of losing himself.)

Will knows Hannibal would love this act to not be an act, for them to move effortlessly together, to be happy and _close_ and in love. Will has enough imagination to see such a thing, but he _can't_ see himself being there, getting to that point. Moving from point A to whatever letter that would be. So, for now, he pretends to be interested in the vegetables and fruits Hannibal picks out. He tries to converse a little in German (mostly just saying thanks and goodbye).

Their next stop is a higher end shop selling cologne. As it's new, Will instinctively crowds closer into Hannibal, warily glancing around. He's not the best with the finer things of this new life. He keeps expecting to be called out as an impostor, but it hasn't happened yet. He lets Hannibal buy some of his nicer clothes, for Christ's sake.

Will swallows and licks his bottom lip. He can do this. It's not a big deal. "Sure, thank you, Nikolas, that would be nice," he answers politely. Before he can get started on sniffing at the samples (or whatever he's supposed to do), from his peripheral vision, Will sees two middle-aged men regarding them with disdain.

Usually, any dislike thrown his way is because of his obvious weak German and the fact that he's American, but sometimes it's the same-sex relationship status that disgruntles people. From their expression, he thinks it's the latter. Will immediately frowns and leans into Hannibal, his mouth hovering close to Hannibal's ear. 

"I don't think they like us," Will murmurs and then makes a blatant show of nuzzling at Hannibal's cheek. Will's hands come to grip on Hannibal's arms. Public displays of affection usually make people uncomfortable. Will knows he's egging them on, but he doesn't care. Homophobia is everywhere and he's not going to be shamed into "behaving." Will's not even a bonafide gay man, but he's sure as shit not going to stand down.

One of the two men screws up his face before speaking louder in German, obviously expecting them both to not understand the language. 

"What's he saying?" Will asks, curious.

* * *

Hannibal is content to pretend that there is no issue. He is a hedonist, and while it is exceedingly rare for him to have taken a man to bed, he has never allowed the traditional mindset to poison his outings. Hannibal is used to being the center of envy and lust (or he had been, before his name had been smeared over the tabloids, though thankfully very few have reached this far) and while he does not particularly _enjoy_ being the center of scorn and disdain, the attitudes of those less evolved are of no concern to him. Instead he pretends that he doesn't understand the words as he watches Will's reaction to the cologne set on his wrist. Not for the first time, he wishes this were real, that the little pinch of confusion on Will's brow was both genuine _and_ fond instead of simply uncertain.

Then a few _choice_ words reach his ears and Hannibal stills. It's almost imperceptible, save Will then chooses to lean in and speak, and Hannibal knows that Will is aware of the general gist, if not the words themselves. Hannibal's lips thin and he silently contemplates suggesting the both of them to Will, but he doubts that general rudeness will warrant Will's murderous wrath. A pity. Hannibal wants to see Will like that again.

Will's proximity is a pleasant addition though. Hannibal closes his eyes when Will's stubble scratches over his cheek, and while Hannibal's pulse quickens and his breath hitches at the unintentional closeness, it is not the same as when he and Will are alone. Here, Will acts. Alone, it is just them. There are no distractions, no embellishments. At 'home', it is raw and _real_ , which is why Will's distance stings so much. 

Still, having Will's touch - even acting - is a thrill in and of itself. Hannibal basks for the few seconds he can as he reaches out and slides one arm around Will's back, his hand splaying along his back. To any onlooker, they are the epitome of loving, sharing intimacy, a gift offered and the resulting gratitude. 

Hannibal is quiet, his muscles tense under Will's hands, and when the men behind them speak _louder_ , jeering at the shop owner and a few other patrons, Hannibal's jaw clenches. Unlike Will, he can understand them and the blatant disrespect is something that would have invited both men to his basement back in Baltimore. It is vulgar enough that Hannibal doesn't _wish_ to share the translation with Will, but he had sworn to Will not too long ago to always translate when needed. Hannibal sighs.

"Initially he was using vulgar language to refer to the nature of our _unique_ relationship. Now he is quite loudly making predictions over which one of us is..." Hannibal's frown deepens; he's clearly displeased, " _sexually_ submissive to the other."

Given the way the man nudges his friend and gestures to Will with a sneer, it is quite clear which one of them he assumes takes that specific role in the bedroom. 

* * *

Will has long known that, for an older man, Hannibal is not at all that bad looking. It hadn't really mattered before. It hadn't been something Will thought on, for why would he? He'd been caught up in the complicated dance of betrayal and forgiveness with Hannibal. That changed after the realization that _yes_ , he had actually achedfor Hannibal (thanks, Bedelia). Then it was Will resigning himself to the fact that somehow, for some reason he must love Hannibal. (Against his wishes, against what was good for him...) And after the Dragon had torn up his delicate existence with Molly like claws through tissue paper, Will had known then that only Hannibal would be in his future.

Although Will had embraced Hannibal on the bluff, he hadn't accepted going forward and _living_ with such a fate. Will isn't entirely certain he's okay with it now, but here he is, possibly inciting some assholes because... Well, because it's the right thing to do to not stand down. He's never been some rainbow flag toting ally but he knows Hannibal's feelings toward him aren't something he wants some jerks to make fun of.

Before Hannibal even answers, Will can tell that he isn't impressed with the men's attitudes either. Likely their rudeness would have been enough to warrant Hannibal stalking them down and slaughtering them. Will can also tell that him coming this close has a noticeable effect on Hannibal. He likes it. Will allows Hannibal to draw him in nearer. A sigh is given before Hannibal explains what the two men have been saying. Will's eyes widen at the phrase ' _which one of us is sexually submissive to the other.'_

That's just polite talk for which one of them takes it up the ass. Will doesn't miss how it appears that _he's_ assumed to be the one bending over and being fucked. Will laughs softly, redirecting his focus back on Hannibal. 

"They may think it's me, but we both know who would beg for it, don't we?" Will's voice is low and hushed. He's getting a little hard just saying it. He can't claim that he hasn't thought about it, though. (Oh, he has, he's thought about fucking Hannibal hard, without a condom and coming in his ass...) Before Hannibal can respond to his assertion, Will is pulling away and glancing at the samplers. "Whatever you want to smell on me, I'll go with that. I trust your opinion," Will says amiably. 

* * *

There are many ways that Hannibal could kill the men behind them, but he doesn't. Will is the one who makes those decisions right now (perhaps indefinitely) and as much as Hannibal would like to see the men attempt to scream as he severs the connection to their lungs, those thoughts are distant and bitter. Part of it is the rudeness - a big part - but there is another part of him that _is_ frustrated that Will might read so much into this interaction that it will make him withdraw. 

While they had shared that moment in the bath - while Will had taken their relationship in a new direction and had left Hannibal reeling - there has been no talk of anything like it since. Hannibal still scents arousal on Will by times, but it could easily be as simple as the fact that Will had likely gone from regular sex to nothing. 

Perhaps a very small part of it is frustration that the assumptions of those men _aren't_ correct, but it's a passing thought, nothing more. Hannibal focuses as best as he can on the press of Will's cheek to his own, on the warmth of his skin in this closeness that is merely an act and yet still makes him ache. He does what he can to dismiss the jeers of the men over his shoulder, allowing the scents of the cologne to drift up to Hannibal's senses. 

He's almost managed to properly rein in his anger when Will speaks, his voice low, nearly a whisper. Yet they are so close that Hannibal doesn't need to strain to hear it. Instead, he listens, and the jolt that the words send through him is sudden and quick, unexpected. Hannibal's breath catches audibly - at least for Will - and the way he carefully stills following the words are a good indication for anyone who knows him that he is attempting to decide on a response. 

The words spark something hungry within him, something voracious and previously denied, and the intensity of it briefly catches Hannibal off guard. He's quick to recover, to find his footing once more, but he is quite relieved that his coat is longer, and that his only visible reaction is the way his eyes have darkened.

"In... that case, I believe something that honors your love of the woods might suffice," Hannibal says, and while there is a slight rasp to his tone, it's not overly obvious. Hannibal wets his lips, quick, heat still prickling over his skin as he delicately lifts Will's wrist up to scent the sample given. He aches for the closeness of a minute ago, but this will do. 

In the end, Hannibal decides on something heady and spiced, a strong note of spice and a subtler, earthen note that somehow encompasses Will Graham. Not Ethan Fischer. Yet it is as Hannibal turns away to place the order to the shopkeep that he switches - quite obviously - to German and politely gives his request. Though when Hannibal's gaze slides over quite calmly to the two men, he is pleased to note that their skin has likely paled a shade or two. 

* * *

Is sex inevitable? Probably. Likely. Will feels like his world revolves around Hannibal now, so why wouldn't that be an outcome, why wouldn't they eventually go _that_ far? He's already masturbated in front of Hannibal (more or less). They both apparently swing that way for each other too. Will has no idea of Hannibal's previous experiences. Has Hannibal messed around with men? Romanced them? Had affairs? Will's not certain. He could ask. He probably should.

There's been no formal agreement about monogamy or commitment between them but Will knows Hannibal isn't interested in anyone but him. When passing by attractive women on the streets, Will can't see himself even fantasizing about them now. Not that he's a hot commodity or anything, but Will is fairly certain he could pick up someone at a bar easily enough. Alcohol and empathy go a long way. But Will hasn't been interested. 

His not-so-subtle comment has Hannibal's breath hitching and Will happens to like that response. He knows he's not wrong. Hannibal _would_ let him and it's probably only a matter of time before they fall further and become more tangled with each other. When they do, it won't be candlelit lovemaking. He can't see that happening. He feels like his control is going to be rapidly spiraling, he's going to be on the edge. He'll need to push Hannibal's head down into the pillow to not see his eyes--

Will wouldn't say he's exactly interested in cologne, but it's not a bad gift to be receiving from Hannibal. He's quiet and agreeable as Hannibal decides on a cologne to go with. The one that Hannibal selects is nice. Will's olfactory skills are not up to Hannibal's, but he likes it well enough. Will knows he couldn't describe the scent. Hannibal speaking German has surprised the few other patrons (and the rude men) so that's amusing. Will feels a curl of satisfaction at the uncomfortable expression worn on the two men's faces as they realize their assumption. 

When they're back in the vehicle, a small fancy gift bag in Will's possession, Will glances over at Hannibal. 

"You wanted to kill them, didn't you?" He asks.

* * *

The shopkeep is exceedingly polite as Hannibal takes the cologne to the till. Beside it, the old men are silent. One has gone pale while the other looks somewhat red in the face, though Hannibal has no interest in guessing whether or not it is from anger or embarrassment. Were this any other time in his life, they would both be dead. Arranged chaotically, perhaps together. Embracing and simulating fornication even in death. Something from an old painting, with their lungs forming wings and their throats slit vertically to bleed into the backdrop. 

One of the men leans away, his frown deepening, and Hannibal silently slides those thoughts back into the neat little box in his mind. Human beings are sensitive creatures, and his murderous intent must have made registered in one of the men. Hannibal simply eyes him coolly, far too long to be accidental, and while one does attempt to stand up to him in silence, Hannibal's quiet, unblinking gaze eventually makes the man look down. Only then does he turn back to the shopkeeper - who is already apologizing for the rudeness of _certain people_ \- and Hannibal dismisses his apologies with a smile that registers as immediately warm. At once, the tension in the room seems lesser and Hannibal pays, chooses a proper wrapping for the gift, and then follows Will back to the car.

He knows that Will is going to speak, though he doesn't know what the conversation is going to be about until they are once again settled in the vehicle. Hannibal passes Will his gift and then buckles his seat belt. Just as he's turned the car on, Will finally speaks up and Hannibal's hand - poised on the gear shift - pauses and then falls away. He sits straighter, his lips forming a quick moue. Then, after a longer silence, he looks sidelong at Will.

"Quite badly," Hannibal says, without heat. What use has he to explain when Will is only asking to hear him _say_ it? "Had this been another moment in time, they would not have been breathing for much longer."

* * *

It's silly to get a gift bag for the small overpriced box containing his cologne. The cologne selected by Hannibal, paid by Hannibal and for _him_... The whole ordeal is wasteful, the tissue paper, the flair, and pomp. There might as well have been confetti thrown in... But Will keeps the bag in his lap, his hands cradling it gently like it's something precious. Will's never received many gifts in his life. He still remembers the not-corpse of Freddie Lounds dug up and deified for him. Cologne is undoubtedly far more socially acceptable.

Will's almost curious about what Hannibal could come up with _now_. If he encouraged Hannibal to play and gift him another corpse or two... Of course, that's too dangerous to even entertain. Anything Ripper-esque would invite trouble, would alert the FBI surely. Being considered dead has its perks.

His question has Hannibal pausing. They don't often talk in the car, at least not about anything important. Will's never cared for conversations in enclosed spaces where it's usually difficult to escape. The answer is one that he'd expected.

Will meets Hannibal's eyes. "Another moment in time... One with me not present and holding you back," Will clarifies, although he hardly needs to. "We've had a noticeable interaction and it would be dangerous to go after them." This is also pointless. They both know Will's type and it's not bigots nor the rude. 

"Do you think you'll grow to resent me?"

* * *

Will's translation is correct and Hannibal doesn't insult him by pretending otherwise. He entertains the idea for a moment and then dismisses it. Will would be _more_ upset were Hannibal to lie. Thus far, while difficult, Hannibal has maintained his promise of years past. He has not lied to this man, nor will he. His truths are not always clear and transparent; they are often muddied by displeasure and subtleties, but they are always true. So now, seated beside Will in the car, Hannibal considers the moment and then finally reaches for the gear shift once more. 

He is quiet as he pulls back out into traffic. Will's words linger, and Hannibal is thoughtful as he says, "you underestimate my patience, Will. There were many people I killed that had made my list years previous. One, three, six years down the road... true, we have had an interaction with them now, but I am a patient man."

Or he had been, once. Back when his fangs had not been locked behind leather straps and his claws had not been covered by caps. Hannibal pointedly avoids answering Will's other question for long enough to imply that he either hadn't heard or has no intention of answering. The question itself is... difficult. As Hannibal drives, as the scenery passes by them and he drives them further downtown to search for a place to stop for a light meal - and a coffee - he muses on the idea, of possibly growing to resent Will in time.

Yet in the end, as Hannibal approaches a local coffee shop, he finds his answer. It is perhaps not what Will wishes to hear.

"Maybe," he says. "Yet perhaps the question should be whether I grow to resent you enough to consider leaving." He's quiet for a moment, perhaps a little too long yet, but Hannibal's wistfulness for years past is just that: shadows of memories on walls. "If I have not left yet, I doubt I will. I could have killed you after our Fall, or I could have let you drown. I didn't."

* * *

Will doesn't expect Hannibal to lie to him. What good would it do? He knows this man better than anyone else. They know each other... But for all that is supposedly known, Will wonders how confident they really are in that knowledge. They've seen each other, glimpsed, beheld the vulnerability of being exposed and known, and yet there is a chasm that remains between them. Close, but distant. Will could reach out and take Hannibal's hand. He's had Hannibal's head on his lap…

The motion of the car is comfortable and when Hannibal answers, Will isn't surprised by Hannibal impressing upon him his expansive patience. It's Will who is well-known for being impatient and impulsive at the worst of times. He gets it. He does. Will likes the gratification of selecting a heinous individual, going through the necessary precautions and research on them, for Hannibal to snatch them up and Will to dispatch them. It's a process they've now done three times.

His other question - undoubtedly the only worthy statement to reply to - goes ignored by Hannibal. Will hazards a glance at Hannibal and by the expression worn on the older man's face, Will believes Hannibal is thinking about it. Will is fairly certain that Hannibal wouldn't ignore any legitimate question posed by him.

He's right. As they near a smaller local coffee house known for its delicious sandwiches and baked goods, Hannibal finally answers. It's about what Will expected, but it's not necessarily easy to hear. Hannibal can and will bear a lot -- _for_ him. He's stayed Hannibal's hand, muzzled the monster. 

"You'll have me in any capacity you can have," Will surmises, shifting in his seat as Hannibal parks the car. "How the mighty have fallen." It's not said cruelly, but instead almost reverently. Will undoes his seat belt before looking over and adding on, "I happen to like where you're at."

* * *

He could have let the Atlantic take her due. Hannibal can still recall the visceral panic he had felt when the impact of their bodies against the surface of the water had ripped Will from his grasp. He'd been thrown aside, his leg fracturing upon impact, his body battered and bruised, and yet he had taken a long minute to dive into the water again and again until his fingertips had brushed the sodden fabric of Will's shirt. 

As Hannibal sits in the car now, he thinks back to it, to the way he had hauled Will's still body upon the sand and the way he had clasped a hand to his cheek to keep air in his mouth as he'd begun CPR. Those minutes of breathing and chest compressions had felt like the longest of Hannibal's life. Yet he had made his choice then. Even though the months that had followed had not been ideal, and even though this new reality is not what he'd imagined, he would not trade it for the alternative.

Hannibal ducks his head slightly as Will's translation hits its mark. He _will_ have Will in any way he can. If this is the pound of flesh he must pay, he shall. Yet that said, despite the awe in Will's voice, the words that follow make Hannibal's expression pinch. How the mighty have fallen, indeed. Were he a better man, perhaps he might have turned and dismissed Will at that point, but he isn't. Hannibal is muzzled and patient, but he is not tame. And yet for Will... perhaps he has made an exception.

"You like it best when you can witness desperation. When you can see the result of your game for yourself," Hannibal says, and there's a quick bite in his tone that fades the next second. He sighs instead, takes a moment to collect himself, and then he looks over at Will with a small frown, somewhat taken aback that Will is also looking at him. 

"And yet I have not gone anywhere. Nor will I."

Hannibal sends him a final look, perhaps bitter, perhaps wistful, perhaps defeated. Then he gets out of the car, quietly closes the door, and locks it only when Will has joined him. He meets Will on his side of the vehicle and reaches out, setting a possessive hand upon his back. In public, they don their suits once more.

* * *

Will knows that there is a risk Hannibal could leave. Hannibal could grow tired of this game, of the fluctuating rules, how unfair it ( _Will_ ) is. With a snarl, Hannibal could finally rip off the muzzle. Sometimes Will thinks of it. He can see Hannibal quietly packing a bag in the middle of the night and going -- no note, no goodbye. One moment there, the next not. Hannibal could disappear and start anew, free of him. Their house would remain exactly the same. When Will woke, he might think Hannibal had gone to pick up fresh croissants for them. When the hours ticked past, Will might start to worry that Hannibal got into an accident. When he then tried to text or call and the line was disabled, he'd _know_. 

How would he feel then, when the realization hit and reality sank in? ( _Alone, your fault. Discarded again._ )

It's not worth thinking on. Will's fairly confident Hannibal _won't_ be running away from him. He's got him webbed up nice and tight...

Hannibal is right: Will enjoys seeing the desperation, seeing the result of the game that he runs. 

_'And yet I have not gone anywhere. Nor will I.'_

Will may have already been feeling decently certain, but the reassurance has him feeling antsy, like he doesn't want this conversation to be over, like he wants Hannibal to tell him again and again until the words begin to blur as they have.

But Hannibal gives him a weary look and gets out of the vehicle instead and all Will can do is follow suit. Hannibal walks around the car and joins him, a hand placed on his lower back. Will takes a step in the direction of the shop but then stops suddenly. He turns to face Hannibal, unsure of his own expression as his hands shoot out to grip at Hannibal's shoulders and he pushes Hannibal against the side of the vehicle. Maybe Hannibal will be pissed because his coat is going to be dirty, because Will is being rude, but Will doesn't care. 

He fits his body against Hannibal's, pinning him there and knowing that surprise had been on his side and that Hannibal could push him away if he wanted to.

(He won't.)

"I'm not going anywhere either," Will grits out. 

He feels angry, displeased that he's also so helplessly tangled up and being forced to act out. He doesn't like this, doesn't like losing his cool especially in public. He'd been doing well... Will buries his head in the collar of Hannibal's coat and he breathes in deeply the smell of Hannibal's cologne and aftershave. Will's fingers grip tightly and he pushes at Hannibal again. They probably look like a lovestruck couple who can't keep their hands off of each other. What a simple problem that would be.

* * *

This is a dance that they have done many times before and with each careful iteration, the routine is locked away. Before taking Will inside to obtain the cologne, Hannibal had stepped out and offered Will his arm. At the market, Hannibal had allowed him to do the same, and had alternated between offering Will his arm and letting his hand come to rest on Will's lower back. 

In public, Hannibal is permitted to touch as much as it is polite to touch in public. It is an appearance to maintain even if it isn't entirely a lie for him. Yet this is a dance they have done before, and Hannibal expects Will to lean into his side, or to reach down and take his arm, or his hand. Hannibal is expecting nothing different than the routine they have established.

Will takes a step and Hannibal follows suit, his mind already drifting away from the conversation as he re-solidifies his focus upon the character he will be playing. Yet before he can shake off the impact of the conversation - of his admission and Will's answers ( _how the mighty have fallen_...) - Will suddenly stops. 

Hannibal stills awkwardly, for he hadn't been expecting it, and he's about to question Will when Will turns to face him. The look on Will's face renders Hannibal silent, for it is something tight and raw, a mix between feral and aching, and Hannibal's eyebrows are already climbing when Will's hands suddenly reach out to grab his shoulders.

The shove of Will's body against his own genuinely catches Hannibal off guard. He cannot remember the last time someone had been able to _physically_ surprise him. The bluff, perhaps, but Hannibal had felt Will leaning into him and had accepted it. _This_ is enough to make him stagger back against the side of the car. His back hits the door and he reaches an arm out awkwardly to ensure _some_ support, but the impact might bruise. Hannibal doesn't care. His focus is on Will, and on the way Will's voice grinds out, sounding angry, but also sounding _wounded_. A wild, feral creature snarling and lashing out instinctively, but settling because it knows _this_ is safe. 

Hannibal is stunned as Will leans in and buries his face in against his coat. He's quiet for a moment, and then his hand slides up to the space between Will's shoulders. Aware that they are likely being watched by at least a few people, Hannibal draws Will in close, winding his arms around him in a way that Will has never truly allowed before. Not since that night... and the visceral shudder that works through him is almost as cold and cruel as a blade in Will's hand. Hannibal draws him in, holds him tight, and he lets the words wash over him as he rests there, his breathing slightly hitched. Will isn't going anywhere... and Hannibal holds him tight enough that it must hurt, but Will has not permitted this in their new life. 

"Then we shall exist together, in this, our locked orbit. Desperation, hostility, resentment, affinity, compassion... all multiple parts to a whole," Hannibal whispers back, muttering low in Will's ear. " _Our_ reality. Belonging to us and no one else. All I require is your presence."

* * *

The last time Will had clung to Hannibal had been months ago on the bluff. The ocean air had been cool, but Will hadn't felt chilled. No, he'd been warmed by violence, by exertion and blood -- by victory over a shared adversary. Relief had washed over him, Hannibal had held him like he had been something precious. At that moment, Will _had_ felt precious.

Precious but fearful. Fearful of the implication of choosing Hannibal, of finally acknowledging the connection between them. (How many had paid for them to get to this point?) And now there are more games. Games have always existed between them. It's safer ground. Safer than the alternative at least. Why should he play nice just because Hannibal is? The scale is not balanced.

Hannibal's arm comes around his back and pulls him closer. Shame burns at the sheer weakness of the position, how blatantly needy he's being, but it can't be helped. Hannibal holds him tight, tight enough to feel it in his bones and Will feels compressed, his body squeezed smaller and even though he's the one that has pushed Hannibal against the car, it's Hannibal holding him together. (A part of Will hates it.)

A locked orbit, Hannibal calls them. The words that follow... Will can't argue with them either. Desperation, hostility, resentment, affinity, compassion... Various components that form a whole -- that make _them_. All Hannibal requires is his presence... But that's not the same for Will. For the first time, it sits like a stone in his stomach, damning him. 

_I want to hate you_ , threatens to come out. Instead, Will says, "I want to fuck you." The words seem sacrilegious to vocalize to Hannibal. "Will you let me? Please?" He doesn't even know if they have the necessary supplies, but he has a feeling Hannibal is prepared.

* * *

This is vicious. To the casual onlooker (and they have a few, when Hannibal glances up briefly) they look like nothing more than a doting couple. Will's press against him makes him seem either earnest or needy, and the way Hannibal's arms wrap around him give the false insinuation that _Hannibal_ is the one offering comfort. The single glance that Hannibal gives the people around them has various reactions bleeding out. A few look shocked, one looks concerned, but the majority look either annoyed at the display of what they read as _affection_ (if only) or delicate and fond. The latter takes the majority by far, and Hannibal - ever the actor - offers a small smile to those looking before he tightens his hold on Will and leans in, pressing his lips to the wildness of Will's hair.

He can hide his lack of a smile there. For as Hannibal buries his face in against Will's hair, the sheepish smile he'd worn for the crowd vanishes instead into something visceral and wild. He closes his eyes, and while the only visible indication of the depths of his emotion is a pinch to his brow, the way he clutches Will close _has_ to hurt. Hannibal doesn't let go.

He isn't sure what he is expecting Will's response to be, but when Will's answer comes - when his voice grinds out roughly like broken shards of glass over Hannibal's senses, bitten into his skin - Hannibal cannot hide the way his breath hitches in honest shock. He had expected many things, many answers, and yet _this_... this is not one of them. His cane - resting beside him against the car - slides uselessly over against Hannibal's hip, but Hannibal pays it no mind. A rush of heat and nerves alight within, for Will's tone is both violent and desperate. He's calm. _The calm before the storm_ , Hannibal's mind supplies. Yet before he has even thought about the question, the answer is there, superimposed upon his mind.

His shudder is visceral enough that Will must feel it, what with his face pressed to Hannibal's chest. How their conversation had turned into something so violent, so quietly possessive, is beyond Hannibal. Yet somehow it also seems like this has always been the only outcome. Hannibal hisses a soft breath between his teeth, hot against Will's scalp. His _please_ sounds as enticingly deadly now as it had in the hospital. 

" _Yes_ ," Hannibal says, and his voice - while calm - is like cold fire. Unnatural and cauterizing and yet still somewhat cold. Though the chill dies as he adds, "you don't need to ask. You need only _tell_."

* * *

Will should care about onlookers, about the possibility of creating some sort of scene here. He knows better. Hannibal had coached him on the art of blending in but not being overly inconspicuous either -- having a balanced presence. But this is skewed. The longer he stays pressed into Hannibal, the longer that Hannibal's arms crush him in a tight embrace, the worse it gets. They've frequented this particular coffee house at least once a week for a while now, they're somewhat regulars.

But he doesn't care. Will can't care. It feels like he's cracking and Hannibal is the salve to at least slow it down and to offer a measure of respite. And how fucked up is it that the man who has killed so many, who has fucked up _his_ life so spectacularly could manage such a feat? Fate is cruel or at least has a perverse sense of humor. Probably both.

His words - his question - they pull out a shudder of a breath from Hannibal. Sex is intimate. Fucking is intimate, with or without the candles and soft music. They haven't even kissed, but they're going to fuck? But why would they do anything the traditional way? They've never been traditional. Will feels like they might as well stay the course.

Hannibal tells him _yes_ and Will's heart thunders in his chest. Permission is imperative. He would never try and order Hannibal (or anyone). The addition... Hannibal's words feel seared into his mind now: _you don't need to ask. You need only **tell**._ (Will knows, but hearing it...)

It's difficult to know what to say, how to think about the prospect of this even happening -- of fucking Hannibal. Will's fingers grasp tightly on the wool fabric of Hannibal's coat. He nods first then clears his throat. 

"Okay. Later tonight then," Will states. A part of him wants to insist that they leave now and do it ASAP but they do need to grab something to eat and put away groceries. There are practical matters to attend to and he doesn't want to seem too eager. So Will stiffens and takes a deep breath as he pulls away, piecing himself back together after his undoubtedly stupid emotional display.

"Let's grab sandwiches and coffee," Will suggests with a hint of a fake smile. Back to business. There are still appearances to maintain, after all.

* * *

Hannibal's senses burn with the answer he's given, but they burn hotter at the feeling of Will against him. Just like that, he no longer cares about the people undoubtedly looking at them. Instead, he focuses on Will, on the sound of his breathing, the way he grips Hannibal's jacket, and the heat of his body. The knowledge that not only has he given Will permission to take what he wants, but that it will result in Will touching him more than he has before sends something hot and twisted and selfish through his chest. He swallows and grips Will tight, as if feeding off of his emotion in a parody of Will's empathy.

When Will finally pulls away, the separation claws at Hannibal's resolve. Hannibal hisses out a small breath between his teeth and for a moment, he aches to drag Will back in, to clutch him close, to dig his nails into Will's skin, to possess and rip and _bleed_ them together. Yet the statement still settles him. Later tonight. Hannibal's jaw clenches for but a single moment before he nods. Much as he aches for the closeness - regardless of comfort - Will is correct. They have a reputation to protect and appearances to uphold now.

Hannibal's false smile feels strained upon his face when he notes the same on Will's, but at least they are struggling with their shared knowledge together. Better together than alone, particularly in this situation. So Hannibal nods slowly and reaches out, once more setting his hand on Will's lower back. To anyone watching, it looks like something idly possessive and affectionate, but Will can likely feel the quick bite of Hannibal's nails as he gives Will a small push, enough to begin to lead him into the coffee shop.

"Once we have finished here, we can decide whether or not we wish to return to the house or continue on," Hannibal says, like there's no strain to his voice, like the mix of longing and nerves don't exist. 

* * *

Hannibal's jaw may clench, but Will knows Hannibal is going to be practical about this. How could he not be? Once again, they have roles to play, reputations to care about. Pleasant husbands. Friendly polite foreigners. It's nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary for them. Even with the excitement of what's going to transpire tonight, Will somehow manages to hold it together. He lets Hannibal lead him into the coffee house, staying close to him and finding the familiar environment comforting.

(Coffee is safer, safer than clinging to Hannibal at any rate.)

Thankfully the coffee house isn't too crowded. They place their orders -- an americano for Will and a cappuccino for Hannibal. They also order two grilled turkey, brie, and apple butter sandwiches with arugula. It still amuses Will that Hannibal would eat a sandwich, but if they're to fit in...

They take their usual seat, a table in the corner away from the speakers and entryway and affording them as much privacy as possible without being too obvious about it. They remove their jackets and Will settles into the chair. He's not quite slipped back into being the more mild-mannered and smitten Ethan. It's honestly hard to look at Hannibal and not think of what he plans on doing tonight.

Focus.

Their beverages are delivered first and Wil wraps his hands around the mug, mirroring Hannibal's own. He knows Hannibal likes the warmth. 

"So, do you have the necessary supplies for our endeavor tonight?" Will asks, voice completely casual and giving nothing away. They may be out in public, but he's fairly certain they can still dance around this topic. (Will has a vested interest in it, after all.)

* * *

Will is not the only one struggling with the concept of behaving as he should. While 'Ethan' is not being as doting as he normally is, 'Nikolas' seems far more distracted than he normally would be. The knowledge of what is going to happen later burns over Hannibal's senses, a hot, curling whisper of promise and desire that slides all the way down to the tips of his fingers. He breathes slowly as he walks inside, and after he has placed their orders (with a few telling touches to Will's back that earn them a small smile from the barista) he allows Will to lead them both back into the table in the corner that has become 'theirs' in recent weeks.

The decor in the coffee shop is muted and simple, nothing overtly decadent like Hannibal might be drawn to, but the atmosphere is calm and relaxing and the food is good enough. The service is likely the best part, as those who work here come by to check on their customers only when they deem it necessary. It affords more privacy, and more time to talk. Normally Hannibal enjoys coming here with Will, even if their topics of conversation are muted at best. Now, feeling the tension thrumming under his skin, knowing that later that evening they will be taking their interaction a step further, Hannibal cannot concentrate on the decor, nor the atmosphere.

He is somewhat distracted when their drinks are brought over, though he does manage to thank the server before she leaves. Hannibal's hands curl around the warmth of his cup and he breathes in the subtle notes of vanilla in the air. Yet it isn't until Will speaks up that Hannibal visibly goes still. He's quiet for a second, though his eyebrows do lift. The answer to the question is simple. And yet the _implication_... Hannibal frowns, albeit mildly. He tries to make the expression look thoughtful.

"Yes," Hannibal manages, once he's found his voice once more. He hasn't missed Will's attempt to dodge around the meaning to the question, so he endeavors to do the same. "Both for protection and ease. Is there anything more that you expect we might need?"

* * *

This is probably not a great idea (but when has that ever stopped Will?). Talking about their impending sexual adventure in public...? Yeah, definitely not the best of ideas, but Will doesn't care. He can't let it go. The idea of _fucking_ _Hannibal_ has taken root in Will's mind and wants to flourish like a weed. And the worst part of it is, Will fucking _wants_ it to. He wants to think about it and salivate over it like some dog and a T-bone steak.

His question catches Hannibal off guard but Will refuses to back down. He looks at Hannibal, completely unabashed about what he's asking about. (Will has a feeling that if Hannibal had initiated the conversation, he wouldn't have been thrown. Being the one _leading_ helps.)

Hannibal answers, clever and straight to the point. Protection means condoms, ease refers to lube. Will knows that safe sex is important, but the very notion of _safe_ -anything with Hannibal is laughable. Will still smiles nicely, glad that Hannibal has seen fit to play along in this.

"I can't think of any other supplies that we'll need," Will replies easily. His finger lifts to trace the lip of the hot mug in front of him. "But when partaking with a new partner, I think we both need to know each other's experience."

Will's right foot moves closer underneath the table. He's careful to not use the bottom of his boot lest he actually dirty Hannibal's pants. Instead, he uses the top to brush against Hannibal's ankle before rubbing upward.

* * *

It should bother him that this is the topic of conversation that Will has chosen, and yet as Hannibal sits there with his hands around his cup, slowly warming up from the outside chill, he cannot help but find the moment almost expected. Quite honestly, the fact that Will is inquiring at _all_ speaks of some level of consideration, which Hannibal appreciates. Had he merely assumed, Hannibal would have guessed that Will might not _care_ about Hannibal having the proper supplies. That he does settles something warmer in Hannibal's chest, regardless of how sudden and visceral this shift in their dynamic already feels. This has likely not changed who they _truly_ are with each other, but he cannot claim that the idea of Will _taking_ doesn't appeal. 

There is a mild heat in Hannibal's eyes when he answers, and the heat only grows when Will replies. Will is not the only one affected by this conversation. 

Hannibal glances away to ensure that no one is coming to bring their food over; he doesn't want anyone truly privy to this conversation. Then he feels the sudden press of Will's polished shoe against his ankle, and Hannibal jerks just enough to prove his surprise, then stills. He darts a look back at Will, at his mild expression and the pleasant look in his eyes that is lanced with a deeper hunger that only Hannibal can see. He feels the slow slide of Will's foot up the side of his leg and his own breath shudders out in mild surprise. The unsolicited touch - bold and subtle - is another instance of Will _touching_ him. Hannibal feels it down to his core. It's deep enough that it takes him longer than he'd like to give Will his answer.

"That is... wise," Hannibal says, his voice clear save for a mild strain. "Given what you have asked for this evening, I shall say that I have indulged infrequently, though... not in the capacity you have asked of me. Not with another's assistance, though occasionally on my own." 

Hannibal clears his throat. "And you?"

* * *

Will has thought about this a little -- a sexual relationship with Hannibal. He's tried to think of it as an inevitable practical step versus something to fantasize about (although it'd been difficult _not_ to at times). Will used to have sex regularly, a few times a month with Molly and now it's been _only_ Hannibal around him. They spend a substantial amount of time together, or at least in each other's presence. They haven't done much in terms of their attraction, but it's fucking there. Hannibal plays by his rules, follows his lead. Even while in public, Hannibal is careful to only do what Will has done first himself. Such a gentleman after all.

Will is hardly being a gentleman _now_ with the whole footsie business and slyly discussing sex over coffee. Hannibal startles just a little, but quickly regains his composure. That Will can have such an obvious effect is still... _Empowering_. When he chooses to touch Hannibal, Hannibal cannot help _but_ be affected. (How touch starved must Hannibal be for such a thing to occur? Will's sure he doesn't want to know.)

Hannibal is not quick to reply but that's fine with Will. His shoe rubs slowly up and down Hannibal's leg, a non-sexual touch that means more than Will likely can put into words. Will listens carefully to Hannibal: Indulged infrequently, but not in this capacity translates into Hannibal having _given it_ before, but not _received_. Will's foot stutters to a blatant stop as a realization sets in. Hannibal has never been fucked before but would allow - is going to allow - Will to do it. Will squirms in his seat, feeling arousal hit him far too hard that he almost misses what Hannibal adds on: that he's occasionally touched himself there.

Will takes a quick breath, glancing down at his untouched americano. It feels safer to just jump in and reply. "As for myself, I have indulged with women, but not for some time." While he was in the academy and less obviously beaten down by the world, Will had been more sexually adventurous... He couldn't say the same for the past decade. "Nothing on my own, nothing like _that_..." 

It's Will's turn to clear his throat. He doesn't want to imagine himself like... _that._ Fingering himself? Hannibal fingering him? Being fucked? No. 

* * *

Hannibal does not think Will an idiot; he knows that Will is going to understand what he's said, and so he's quiet, watching calmly as the realization hesitates and then strikes Will all at once. Hannibal feels his foot stop against Hannibal's shin and it almost makes him frown; he doesn't wish for Will to _stop_ , daring as the touch has been. Will's foot hasn't moved away though; Hannibal is going to enjoy the touch for as long as he's able, comfortable or uncomfortable as this conversation might be. Plus there is the added benefit of the scent of Will's arousal, which spikes abruptly when the full weight of Hannibal's words hit. Hannibal watches Will squirm, breathes in the heady scent of his arousal, and feels the low burning of desire curl through his body as well. 

He's been aroused around Will before. Recently, in fact, when Will had told him to join him in the bath, but this is the first time where Hannibal has felt the rush of pleasure that comes from knowing that Will is thinking about _him_. The realization is almost dizzying as it burrows deep within him, for desiring this man has always been enough for Hannibal, but the notion that Will might desire him as well makes the look in Hannibal's eyes burn as he regards Will quietly. 

Anticipation builds, but Hannibal remains silent. Even so, when Will speaks, detailing his own history, Hannibal listens. And, quietly, he shifts one leg in close enough to press the side of his shoe to Will's other, stationary one. His expression doesn't shift. Instead, he listens and watches, and the emphasis that Will places on the word ' _that_ ' immediately gets Hannibal's attention. He looks at Will, impassive. Then he lifts his chin.

"Do you want to?" Hannibal asks, though he already knows the answer. Even so, he would be remiss were he not to ask. If Will wants to _have_ him, Hannibal intends to know in what - and in how many - capacities he intends. "Or is your indulgence more of a single focus?"

* * *

Being semi-hard hadn't been in Will's plans. He doesn't like sporting wood in public (he's sure most men would agree with him). At the moment, he's safe enough sitting down. Will just hopes it's diminished by the time they get up to leave. It doesn't help that he can tell that Hannibal _knows_ he's aroused, Hannibal can easily smell it. Hannibal had watched him squirm too.

Will's not embarrassed. Physical arousal is an unconscious thing. He has no control over it and it's not new for them. However, this is the first time they've ever planned on doing anything about it. And planning and scheduling for sex... Well, it's not romantic, but sex doesn't always need to be spontaneous. It hadn't been uncommon for Molly and him to plan a specific night where fooling around would work.

He can easily see the desire building in Hannibal's eyes. It's intense, scorching like a fire Will can't look away from. He doesn't mind Hannibal taking part in the footsie business. Will's other leg comes to hook around Hannibal's as best he can. Will's not surprised at Hannibal's words. Not really. It's the next logical question that _should_ be asked. 

"I'd say my interest is more of a single focus," Will answers honestly. "At least, _at present_." 

Will can't say it will always be a no. After all, Hannibal has always had a way of surprising him. He takes a sip of his americano. He could tease Hannibal about it, rub it in his face... but Will doesn't want to stoop to that level.

* * *

Hannibal does not mean the question to be uncomfortable, but certain levels of discomfort are a given if Will doesn't respond well. He is honestly expecting Will to be defensive, to snap, or to sneer. Instead, though Will's expression does flicker for a moment, the emotion is unreadable and gone the next second. Hannibal quietly watches Will consider, and then he feels the way Will's leg shifts around to hook around his. The contact is simple, but it still sends heat racing pleasantly through Hannibal's body. It is... startling how aroused he finds himself right now. He's grateful for his heavier overcoat.

Will's response is not a surprise when it comes. Though what _is_ a surprise is the footnote he adds on, a casual mention, like a part of him is expecting to change his mind. Hannibal swallows as subtly as he can. While a part of him (a large part of him) aches to have Will that way, he will take the scraps. He will take the consideration, and he will take this gift. For that's what this is. This is not the way Hannibal typically works, quiet, polite, and itching for a single touch or Will's fingers in his hair. This is a _gift_ and Hannibal will not squander it with greed. One day Will might change his mind, if this is even something he allows again. While Hannibal is not experienced, and has rarely thought about sex in this way, if he comes to enjoy it, all the better.

"Of course. I have no objections. You are allowed a preference." 

Hannibal is about to say more but he catches movement from the corner of one eye. It is then that their server brings their sandwiches, and if she notices anything amiss, she doesn't show it. Hannibal thanks her politely, quickly taking back control of his typical persona outside of the house. And yet when she leaves and Hannibal methodically moves his hands back to take his sandwich - with his hands - he pauses. 

"If one day you become curious, you need only tell me. Until then, your focus suits me fine. Assuming, that is, that this is not a passing whim..."

* * *

Will can't imagine himself taking it up the ass. But, years ago, he couldn't imagine himself sitting in a local German coffee house with Hannibal and going to eat a grilled sandwich. And yet, here they are. Murder husbands, more or less. They've fled to Europe, assumed false identities and they exist together, mostly in peace. Are they thriving? Will doesn't know. This isn't any sort of happy ending. Will wouldn't say he's even happy either. It's something _else._ Something undeniable and inevitable, something he's been running from since Hannibal had offered that they leave together... (And Will had been tempted, like the devil whispering in his ear...)

Hannibal uses the word preference. Will doesn't know if _preference_ is strong enough. The thought of trusting Hannibal, of allowing Hannibal to touch him so intimately? No. Will can't see it happening. Not anytime soon, anyway. 

Will is pleasant when their food is delivered. He lets Hannibal converse and thank the server. Will merely smiles and nods at her. The smell and appearance of their savory sandwich are calming, it gives Will another point to focus on. He takes his napkin and folds it out on his lap before glancing up at Hannibal. Will wouldn't have thought Hannibal capable of eating food in public with his _hands,_ but Hannibal has previously proved him wrong in this. 

Although, when Hannibal speaks up again, talking about Will possibly being _curious,_ Will frowns. The idea that this could be a 'passing whim' irritates him. Will looks obviously disgruntled. 

"I can assure you, my interest is _not_ a passing whim," Will glowers. "We're doing this tonight. And I don't see why we wouldn't do it again in the future." 

With that stated, Will takes a bite of his food.

* * *

Will's response is almost cruel. The flicker of sensation that arcs through Hannibal's chest is sharp and barbed and so strong that it is almost unpleasant, but he cannot fault Will that. Hannibal silently reprimands himself for the question. He knows, quite plainly, that had he and Will not been out for lunch, the comment likely would have earned him nothing more than a cold shoulder and an immediate dismissal. That Will's eyes only narrow in his own displeasure is almost a blessing. Hannibal meets his gaze, not shying away from the emotions that had led him to ask, and he cannot fully hide the ache of desire in his eyes. While it is clear arousal, there is something else there, a longing, a hope for attention and to repeat this in the future.

Hannibal doesn't kid himself that this is going to be something soft and caring. When Will has him - and he will - much as Hannibal would appreciate something slow, something easier to adjust to, realistically it will likely follow the same pattern as before. There will be no tender touches. There will be no clear emotion. He doubts very much that Will is even going to stay after - if they do this in Hannibal's room. If it is in Will's, Hannibal fully anticipates being told to leave. It is unkind, perhaps, but it is only _cruel_ if he goes into this assuming anything else will be the case. 

Their relationship is chaotic and unequal. This is Will's revenge. Though perhaps it is not quite so malicious as that. This is Will reasserting himself. It is him _delighting_. Much as Hannibal wants more, he hadn't been lying. He is content with Will's presence, with the glimpses into his mind. Perhaps the addition of sex - even distant - will soothe some of the loneliness of the past few months, if only for a while.

Hannibal gently tucks the thoughts away as he nods, and while his throat does bob in a clear swallow, desire evident in his gaze, there is no shake to his tone. He is controlled. 

"In that case, I welcome your interest ardently." Hannibal shifts, nudging his foot against Will's once more. "I look forward to it."

With that said, Hannibal glances at Will once more, gaze intent, and then calmly turns his attention to his food and his cappuccino. 

* * *

He knows Hannibal wants him. Hannibal wants so much of him -- _all_ of him. _Everything_. Hannibal would drink him dry if he could, an old world vampire and his chosen beau (he already has the cane and dress sense). Hannibal would cradle him close, threatening to crush his bones as fangs sunk in. (And would Will resist? Would he struggle? He came to Hannibal willingly, said _please_ , all but batted his eyelashes... He can leave at any time, there's no ball and chain and yet he remains.)

Hannibal wants to burrow in deep and there's an awful fucking part of Will that _wants_ to let it happen too.

He doesn't give in. Relationships - real ones - are about compromise. Will doesn't compromise. He _takes_. His hands snatch up and grab like a greedy, wretched child. And one day Will knows he's going to fall from his pedestal. He's going to look at himself in the mirror and probably hate what he's become, how he's treated Hannibal. One day it's going to hit him like a ton of bricks and he hopes he's not wrecked in the process. (No, no, Hannibal would gather him up. Elegant fingers would pick up each piece, each fragment of himself, and Hannibal would put him back together, a veritable Humpty Dumpty, a project to keep Hannibal busy.)

This next step forward frightens him more than he'd ever be willing to admit. Giving Hannibal more, giving Hannibal something he so desperately craves... It's a risk. Will hadn't been lying about the forts in his mind. Will is guarded. He'd been guarded with Molly too. Guarded is safe. It's what he knows. He can only trust himself. So, they will partake in the supposed sins of the flesh and Will knows it won't be romantic or loving. He's going to hold his bitch down--

' _In that case, I welcome your interest ardently... I look forward to it.'_

He blinks and casts his head down. Will's smile is not warm as he takes another bite and swallows before he decides to answer Hannibal. 

"You may regret that," Will says idly. Although knowing Hannibal, he might not. Fucking hedonist.

The rest of their meal is in quiet, companionable silence.

* * *

_Will_ Hannibal regret his words? Perhaps. And yet as he sits there and watches Will eat, as he allows the conversation to fall away and lapse into silence, he knows that while he should regret what he's said, he won't. Will's bitterness is obvious and Hannibal watches it as they finish their meals. He knows this man enough to know the way he looks when he's deep in thought, and he knows Will enough to know when something is haunting him. As Hannibal quietly cleans up their table (out of respect for the staff) and then they rise together - Will first and Hannibal a little slower with his cane - he can see the thoughtful and haunted look in Will's eyes in equal measure. It's fascinating.

Hannibal doesn't take them back immediately, choosing instead to finish the trip. The antique store is a place that he uses more to calm their mental arousal than because he holds an interest in any of the items, but it _is_ good to put in appearances. 

They leave with a few ornaments wrapped in careful paper and once Hannibal drives them back to the house, he makes his way inside in relative silence. There's a mantel that holds a few artfully missing spots, but the ornaments - one a carved wolf with immaculate detail on the fur and fangs, and the other a Celtic stag mid-jump - fit them perfectly. Hannibal pretends to not notice Will looking at him. Sadly, now that they are once again back in the house, it is a return to usual. Despite what will happen in the evening, this is when their public person suits are shed. Hannibal gives up his grip on control and power and Will casts off his meekness in order to greedily grab what Hannibal has cast aside. 

* * *

Will isn't surprised that they don't go home after lunch. They have time to kill (har har) and Will _does_ enjoy the antique shop. He likes looking at the old and discarded trinkets. Will wonders what it would be like if psychometry existed, if he could touch an object and sense its history. Was the child who owned the wooden rocking horse happy? What had this cherrywood armoire witnessed? Love, lust, heartbreak? (Will also wonders what it might be like to be able to share such thoughts with Hannibal freely...)

Hannibal points out the two ornaments and Will would be hard-pressed to not find them fitting for them. A wolf and a stag. Hannibal doesn't even know about Will's ravenstag (and Will has no plans on sharing about it). Perhaps Hannibal just likes the imagery of a predator and potential prey. He'd had the black stag in his office as decoration... Strange how Hannibal had been the one to tear out Dolarhyde's throat but now he's essentially muzzled. 

Like a dance, they go through their steps. Home is familiar and Will likes the quiet, comfortable atmosphere. There's an eerie domesticity that they've grown used to. It should be disconcerting to have any sort of domesticity with Hannibal, but it's not. Hannibal cooks, chores are split, they often eat dinner together. It's not uncommon to both be in the sitting room while reading their own books or tablets. It's a comfortable existence, really.


	4. Safeword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Within three weeks of meeting you, I knew you better than she did in three _years_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the fucked-up-dynamics-train, all aboard! =O

The day is much the same as it always is. Hannibal cooks. He cleans. He prepares meals in advance from the remains of Will's latest kill, and he settles down in his armchair later that evening, after dinner, tending to the fire and enjoying its warmth.

Yet when Will speaks up finally, when he quietly but firmly tells Hannibal to go _shower and clean yourself up_ , Hannibal looks up from the book he'd been reading. He hesitates for a mere moment and then closes his book.

He leaves Will to kill the fire. Will tells him to go to _his_ room after (which sends a frisson of pleasure through Hannibal) and he doesn't tarry. While a part of him wishes to rush through this stage, Hannibal doesn't. Instead he takes his time ensuring he is clean, ensuring he is _presentable,_ for Will has not often seen him bare like this.

Something hot twists within him - a flicker of need, of hunger for the intimacy that has been long denied to him - and Hannibal throws himself into the task. He's already somewhat hard when he steps out of the shower and dries off just enough to say he's done so. Then, with a red towel around his waist, Hannibal glances at the clothing he'd shed to leave in the hamper and dismisses the thought of re-dressing. Will likely won't want the hassle of undressing him, though Hannibal would consider it a treat to be able to do the same to him.

He's aware of the weight of Will's gaze settling upon him as Hannibal walks into Will's room and sets condoms and a more artful bottle of lube on the bed side table. He'd briefly stopped by in his own room first. Yet as he stands there and looks at Will - at the dark, form-fitting black shirt and matching boxers that he wears - Hannibal feels a small tingle of something nearing excitement ripple through him. It's quick to fade; he is not blind enough to hope that this will be anything but what Will had said it would be.

"Is this acceptable?" Hannibal asks quietly, glancing down at himself.

* * *

When the hours pass and it's almost 9, Will tells Hannibal to shower and clean. A shower should help relax Hannibal and cleaning is just good manners. Will decides he would rather fuck Hannibal in his room than Hannibal's so that's added onto his order. Will takes care of the fire, checks that all the windows and doors are locked before heading to his room. He strips off his socks and slacks but takes nothing more off. He doesn't pull the comforter back. They can do it on top.

When Will hears the shower stop he tenses. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He can do this. He _will_ do this. Will is standing by the window when Hannibal arrives in his room. Wearing only a towel.

Will watches him set the "supplies" down. Hannibal is toned, his body bearing scars that Will is familiar with and noticeably more body hair than his own. Hannibal is still attractive enough -- for a man. When he asks if this is acceptable, Will feels a pang of uncomfortable guilt.

"It's fine," rushes out. Truth be told, it's more than fine. Will is already half-hard. "Towel off, get on your hands and knees on the bed."

Will doesn't look away when Hannibal complies -- how could he? The sight goes straight to his cock. Like this, he can see the ugly Verger brand and the entry wound from Dolarhyde's bullet... Will swallows and walks to the side of the bed, grabbing the lubricant and coming to settle beside Hannibal. He places a palm on Hannibal's lower back.

"I'm going to take you hard, Hannibal. I'm going to make sure you feel me," Will warns as his hand slides down over the swell of Hannibal's ass. "You'll say the word ' _Thistle_ ' if you need me to stop. Do you understand?"

But Will is already pulling his hand away to uncap the lube.

* * *

Hope requires expectations and Hannibal has none. Nor does he truly ache for them. Will Graham is a complicated man made even more complicated by this new dynamic they find themselves in. It has always been Hannibal taking control, has always been Hannibal quietly steering Will in the proper direction, one of _his_ choice. This new dynamic _is_ his choice, as it had been the moment that Will had taken Dolarhyde down with him, in a flurry of claws and fangs. They had been two wild creatures, maws soaked in blood and victory. Will had been right; it had been beautiful. And yet though things are different now, though Hannibal has stepped aside to allow Will to blossom in this new life, it is still beautiful. _Will_ is still beautiful.

In time, this will crumble. Resentment might bloom, or Will's conscience will cripple him. Yet for now, Hannibal is content. Will's cruelty is stunning to watch, even when his focus narrows in on Hannibal instead. As an individual, it is maddening, is almost depressing, the lack of connection, touch, and equality. Yet as a man who has only ever wanted this for Will - a complete merging of soul and self, an acknowledgement of everything Will has long-tried to bury within himself - it is nothing short of awe-inspiring. One day they will even out again. One day Will's punishment will fade into something else. The pendulum will swing, and they will converge.

But this is not that day.

This day - this evening - marks the greatest shift in their dynamic. Will's gaze all but burns as it rakes over Hannibal's bared skin, and there is no shame in Hannibal's gaze as he drops the towel. He doesn't avert his eyes; he is _willingly_ submissive, not desperately. Perhaps the idea of letting go appeals, but no one before Will has ever earned the right. Not until now. And as Will instructs him, Hannibal obediently gets up onto the bed. He bends down onto his hands and knees on the middle of the bed, as instructed, and when Will steps over and grabs the lubricant, anticipation prickles through him.

The touch of Will's hand to his lower back makes him shiver; willing touch is a commodity these days, and Hannibal immediately basks in it. Greed rises within, a desire to demand more, to _take_ , but he shoves it aside. Instead he wets his lips, and when Will speaks, when he promises to make Hannibal _feel_ him, Hannibal groans, low and clipped in the back of his throat. He's given a word - a _safeword_ , he realizes - and the knowledge that he is not being permitted to choose his own burns hot. He still doesn't protest. Instead he considers it, the implication of the word, and then he nods.

"Yes, I understand," Hannibal says over the sound of the lube uncapping. His pulse quickens and he closes his eyes, aching for Will's touch to return. Unbidden, he spreads his legs, giving Will the room he needs. Even like this, there is no shame present in his posture. Every visible, gnarled mark on his skin - the twisted Verger brand upon his back, the scar along his calf, and Dolarhyde's bullet wounds - are Will's marks by proxy.

Hannibal swallows, and then adds, "I have no objections. I would like you to make me feel you. I wish to stand in the kitchen tomorrow while preparing dinner and feel the ache of your touch."

* * *

Will's fucked without feeling. Sex without love. It's common and easy -- at least easier for him. Intimacy is difficult. Intimacy is complicated and messy. His empathy can be a double-edged sword at times. Will can understand killers, but he can also understand the hurt and jaded, women used to male partners that were selfish and clueless about them faking it. Will didn't have that commodity. At least, he usually tried to care.

He may withhold, he may be uncaring, but Will knows that he _does_ care for Hannibal. If he's concerned about Hannibal growing to resent him, about Hannibal leaving, he must. There is no life for him back in the US. That small existence with Molly and Walter has been shattered. For him to want to deny Hannibal, to punish and lord over him like a cruel god, Will knows it's because _he's_ hurt. Because Hannibal has changed him, and the effects and consequences are long-lasting.

Hannibal has never allowed himself to be fucked. Will doubts Hannibal has ever been on his hands and knees in front of a partner either. There is a distinct lack of shame from Hannibal. And only Hannibal could manage such a feat. Will knows it's customary for a partner to choose their own safeword, but why wouldn't Will take that away from Hannibal too? Will likes the sight of Hannibal widening his stance to allow for this next task.

_'I have no objections. I would like you to make me feel you. I wish to stand in the kitchen tomorrow while preparing dinner and feel the ache of your touch.'_

"Shut up," Will says, but he lacks any real force. Truth be told, Will wants that too. His cock is tenting the silk boxers obscenely now. Will squeezes out an ample amount of lube on his fingers before dropping the bottle beside him. His left hand comes to spread open Hannibal. Will can see a little bit of evidence of Hannibal having at least stretched a little -- probably just one finger.

Will smears lube around Hannibal's still-tight hole, index finger circling the rim a few times before pushing in steadily. He's not a complete dick about it. He doesn't want to seriously hurt Hannibal during this process. It's slow but still forceful until he pushes all the way in.

"There's my _good_ _girl_ ," Will purrs.

 _Good girl, huh?_ He hadn't thought about calling Hannibal that, but why not? Hannibal cooks and cleans, kneels... Will pulls out his finger before pumping it back in carefully and setting up a rhythm to stretch Hannibal open for him.

* * *

There's no force in Will's order, but Hannibal still considers and then closes his mouth. The weight of Will's gaze is heavy upon him, a perfect sensation that burns hotly up his spine. Will is not the only one hard, though Hannibal's arousal is secondary to the anticipation of each touch as it comes.

Truthfully, this is not about sexual release. This is about connection, regardless of how mild and dismissive. This is about Will's hands on his skin, Will's fingers gripping, his teeth biting, his hips bruising. It will hurt. Hannibal honestly expects Will to be callous with it, to perhaps push without preparation, to rush through, to take. There is no part of him that expects Will to _care -_ ergo why Hannibal had done the bare minimum in the shower - and so when Will's hand comes to spread Hannibal's cheeks, he breathes deep and quietly braces himself.

Which is when the coldness of the lube touches his skin. Hannibal breathes in sharply but otherwise keeps silent, his mind all but singing at the legitimate _touch_ to his skin. He basks in it as much as he can, and to his mutual surprise and disbelief, Will doesn't hasten. There is no slapdash attempt to shove two or three fingers in, or go right for his cock. Instead, though he pushes forcefully - not allowing Hannibal's body to dictate his pace - he is still slow as one finger presses to Hannibal's rim and pushes in.

After so long of the barest, glancing touch, the intimacy in this single moment is staggering. Hannibal's lips part but he keeps a sound quiet, his muscles trembling as he braces himself for Will and takes everything he's given. He can feel the initial roughness of the calluses on Will's fingers - fingers that have curled in order to beat a man to death with his bare hands, fingers that hold the scars from many a knife, a scratch, an impact - and Hannibal shudders at it. Will doesn't rush, doesn't aim to hurt him yet, and Hannibal is grateful. His cock aches but Hannibal ignores it, feeling a quick burn of emotion at the _touch_ he finally has again.

It threatens to dash when Will speaks, however. The words - _good girl_ \- are so similar to those spoken in the sitting room, when Hannibal had gotten to his knees in front of Will. They begin to give him the same twist of desperate hope, but the final word registers and throws the meaning off. Hannibal stills, though the way Will's finger draws out and then begins to push back in does make him shudder. Hannibal widens his stance, but the look he shoots Will over his shoulder is a complicated mix. There's something prideful and fierce that glitters behind his eyes, but it wars quite fully with the twist of longing.

Hannibal no longer makes a secret of his feelings for this man, though he no longer voices them. Even so, the quick twist of indignation _is_ present. It shows that he still has fangs, muzzled as he is, that he is not to be ridiculed without consequence. And yet as he considers Will, he considers the implications. From a sexist note, he cooks, he cleans, he maintains Will's belongings. Arguably he is more open with his emotions, and he takes pride in his appearance. Hannibal's jaw sets. He has questions, he wishes to snap back, but Will had told him to keep silent. So, begrudgingly, Hannibal looks at him, takes a slow breath, and then nods.

* * *

Hannibal's fingers have technically been inside of him. Digging out a bullet, sewing him up, inside his mouth to ensure the stitches were still adequate. Hannibal has checked him for fever and infection, doctoring him but never being clinical about it.

Will is more clinical now. It's about being effective, stretching and loosening Hannibal's channel so that it can accommodate his cock. Will is going to be practical about it, not moving slowly or too fast, just steady but unrelenting. Hannibal keeps quiet but Will can tell this is getting to him.

It's touch. It's a fucking _intimate touch_ at that. He gets it. No matter how disconnected Will may hope to be, he's still _fingering_ _Hannibal_ and Hannibal is hot and still tight. Will _aches_ to be inside of him.

 _Good girl_ has Hannibal shooting him a rather interesting expression. Hannibal had liked or at least been okay with _good boy_ in the living room. Most men would be offended, but the fetish of feminization is a real thing (not that Will has ever really been into it. He'd had no reason to as he'd slept with women).

Even though Hannibal doesn't necessarily _like_ it, he still nods. He _takes_ it and Will doesn't know if he's impressed or disgusted by the acceptance. (Is it a test? Would Will stop and withdraw if Hannibal fought back? Does he want Hannibal to merely _accept_?)

"You were jealous, weren't you?" Will suddenly asks (and it might be more of a hiss). "Jealous of my _wife_. Think you're doing a better job, Hannibal?"

Yes, he's implying that Hannibal is his wife. Will knows he's being cruel, but this is a first where he's been so cruel with his words. He carefully works his middle finger in, marveling at the tension but how Hannibal's body still accepts the intrusion.

* * *

At the heart of their interaction, Will is not mistaken. If Hannibal is reading his implication correctly, he _has_ taken the more traditionally feminine role between them. From his cooking and cleaning, to quietly bringing Will a drink every now and then while he sits in front of the fire, Hannibal can understand the connection. He doesn't _like_ it, but he can understand it. Yet as he kneels there, as he feels the clinical thrust of Will's finger inside of him, feels the mild burn and the spike of sensation that leads to a flood of nerves when he considers what this is leading to, Hannibal cannot tell if Will means _good girl_ to praise him, or to condemn him. It is unsettling how often Hannibal finds himself unsure of that very fact. Praise and condemnation have become slightly interchangeable, so much so that genuine praise truly decimates him.

There is something else growing between them now. As Will's finger moves, as he presses in deep and Hannibal tries to calm his irritation enough to relax around the sudden intrusion, there is tension bleeding out between them. Hannibal can taste it like a rush of blood on the air, locking away into his senses in a heady way. He shivers as Will's touch deepens, as he feels the knuckles of Will's fingers press up against his skin. It's distracting, softening the sting from what might have been intended as an insult. To Will's credit, Hannibal is still distracted enough by the sensation that when he continues - when he has the _gall_ to mention his _wife_ while they are together in this fashion, it takes Hannibal a few moments to process.

When he does, he tenses, unthinkingly clenching around Will's finger as he presses his middle one inside. It burns, but not quite as hotly as the knot of bitterness in his chest. In this moment, though Hannibal does not use the word Will had given him, Will has effectively kicked a hornet's nest.

Hannibal can tolerate feminization if Will desires; he has only ever slept with women before; it makes sense. Yet daring to mention his wife _now_ burns sourly within Hannibal's chest. It's sudden enough that when he looks back at Will once more, he cannot quite hide the flicker of cold bitterness that he normally manages to choke back. Will's voice is a hiss, antagonistic, and Hannibal wonders, quite suddenly, if Will needs a _reason_.

"I _know_ I am," Hannibal replies, damning Will's earlier weak order to be silent. If Will wanted him to comply, he'd have used more force. Even muzzled animals still have claws.

"She saw only what she wished to see. What you _allowed_ her to see. Perhaps legally she held the title of your wife, but she was no more a wife to you than you were a husband to her. Surface-level. Safe. Uncomplicated. Pre-packaged in the event you would leave them one day, or they would leave you. To calm the ache of abandonment."

Hannibal shifts, looking back at Will enough to look him in the eye, blatant, challenging in a way he has not yet been since the fall. Will has never given him _reason_ before.

"Within three weeks of meeting you, I knew you better than she did in three _years_."

* * *

This isn't smart. Will shouldn't bring up Molly. He knows better. She doesn't deserve to be drug through the mud and used as any sort of weapon. She'd been sweet and strong, practical but not cynical -- far better than Will had deserved. Even when he'd met her, he'd known. Will had fucking known that Molly was too good for him. Too accepting, too patient, too understanding... and yet Will had soaked up her warmth and light. And they'd been so welcoming, just what he'd needed after suffering Hannibal...

While Hannibal is, undoubtedly, more feminine than him, Hannibal is not a woman. Will knows this. Hannibal is into fashion and pomp, culture and art, cooking and keeping a tidy home. Will prefers yard work to laundry. Hannibal handles all the finances. Will's never really had to think about gender roles. Life before Hannibal had been less complicated. But now he's going to fuck Hannibal in the ass and he's antagonizing him before doing so. More than ever, Will understands that they're the epitome of a dysfunctional relationship. (But there will be no couples therapy for them.)

Will's eyes are focused on his fingers disappearing into Hannibal's body. When Hannibal tenses, Will glances up and is expecting Hannibal to not stay quiet from what he's lashed out with. He's not disappointed. Hannibal asserts that he _knows_ he's doing better. Will's fingers stutter a little, his eyes glitter as his own beast snarls back at him from behind the muzzle. He likes the show of attitude, of confidence. Will steels himself for the rebuttal, biting his bottom lip as Hannibal hisses his reply.

Will's not taken back. He keeps pumping his fingers in and out of Hannibal's body, albeit at a slower pace as he listens.

 _Surface-level. Safe. Pre-packaged..._ Hannibal is not wrong. The idea of growing old with Molly, being around when Walter graduated... It hadn't ever been all that realized, hadn't felt achievable. When Hannibal glances over his shoulder, Will meets his eyes and stops biting his lip, his mouth parting on an exhale. He's not angry that Hannibal is talking. He hadn't technically told Hannibal to be quiet the entire time anyhow.

_'Within three weeks of meeting you, I knew you better than she did in three **years**.'_

Will smiles and licks his lips as his fingers thrust in harder. "Yes, you're right," Will agrees, feeling a different sort of heat lance through him. "Playing as my friend, my helpful therapist. You were all too pleased to earn my trust, to hear my thoughts and explore my nightmares."

Will looks down, letting his hair fall into his face. He gives a throaty chuckle. "You're my wife now. Going to consummate it tonight, aren't we?"

* * *

This is not the time to have this conversation, when Will's fingers are buried knuckle-deep within him, stretching in a manner that is likely too much, too soon, but Hannibal hardly notices the burn. While this is not the time to have the conversation, this _is_ what's happening, and he doesn't shy away from it. Once, perhaps, he might have, but Hannibal doubts it. Will's cover has been a viciously sore spot since the moment that Alana had calmly told him that Will had finally managed to escape his influence and move on. The anger had burned brightly then, and Hannibal had very nearly broken free of his forced captivity to remind Will that escape would not be so easy, but he hadn't. Instead he'd waited, and the first chance he'd had, he'd sent dear Francis after them. He's still not pleased that they had escaped, but he's not surprised. Will would not have been drawn to someone incapable of taking care of herself.

But the memory burns now. Hannibal feels the pulsing of anger within, sourly mixing with the press of Will's fingers. It doesn't feel good in the way masturbation does, or in the way penetrating another during sex does. There's sensation and sensitivity and an ache that Hannibal _does_ enjoy, but it's not the sharper pleasure he's used to.

Perhaps his anger is numbing him, or perhaps Will either is not aware of the prostate or doesn't care. Hannibal is betting on the latter. Yet despite this, he doesn't demand. He doesn't insist on his own pleasure. He takes what he's given, and he tries to struggle past the burning resentment that Will's neat little packaged family always brings with it.

He watches Will lick his lips, watches him seem to consider Hannibal's words and his position. Then, quite suddenly, the fingers that had slowed their pace within him suddenly press in deeper and sharper, _hard_. The sensation startles a small, punched-out breath from his lungs and his muscles tremble for a moment as the sensation awkwardly settles on pleasure more than pain, though it's uncertain. Hannibal can feel the burn of the stretch and he knows his own tension is not helping. That Will had sought to antagonize him is... telling.

He wants it to hurt, at least a little. Despite his bitterness, Hannibal is proud.

Will's agreement does not come with an apologetic tone. Instead there is fire there, burning, an unvoiced hiss of rebuttal that creeps down to Hannibal's core. He looks at Will, watching him carefully, and when he continues - speaking of the past, of Hannibal's deception - Hannibal's lips thin. Bitterness shared, then. He'd have it no other way.

 _'You're my wife now,_ ' Will says, and Hannibal is honestly somewhat disquieted by the voracious stab of satisfaction and relief that strike him. ' _Going to consummate it tonight, aren't we?'_

"Yes."

The fire in Hannibal's gaze is almost cauterizing as he levels it on Will, unblinking, and unflinching, despite the harder thrusts of his fingers. Hannibal is quiet for a moment. Then, quite clearly, he draws in a deeper breath and then closes his eyes, looking away from Will and letting his head hang as he forces himself to relax despite each thrust.

"We are. And I am. Stake your claim. Slake your thirst. _Take_."

* * *

It's not especially _nice_ to be goading Hannibal while trying to finger him open. It would go much easier if Hannibal didn't tense up, after all. But perhaps this is just another show of Will's cruelty. (And he is curious at times how they would look and be if he _wasn't_ like this, if Hannibal were treated as an equal, if there was only love - or mostly love - instead of bitter and hurt lumped in with it.)

Love. Now there's a daunting prospect. It must be love, though. Love that fuels the obsession, love that enables Hannibal to endure this for him. Love that has Will even attracted to this man at all. Funny how love and madness can seem like two sides of a coin, far too easy to toss up and flip. _Which side shall we land on today?_

Will is still pissed that Hannibal sought to have the Dragon "change" them. Even though he understands jealousy, he's still pissed. He might be more pissed at himself for thinking or hoping he could ever truly escape Hannibal, though. Feeling as bitter as he does now, Will can imagine Hannibal wearing some frilly apron. Why stop there? Hannibal could go a few steps further and wax and put on some nice sexy lingerie for him. The idea appeals. Making Hannibal his wife, a doting little thing...

(Another part feels sickened by his depravity.)

When Hannibal agrees, Will looks back up, shaggy hair not quite obscuring his view of Hannibal. There is no mistaking the heat Will sees. Will feels a hunger growl in his belly, the need to _take_ and _feel_ and _have_ and _possess_ \-- it's disconcerting.

Will is glad when Hannibal closes his eyes and looks away. The disconnection is very welcome. Will feels jittery. He's already sweating and excited and he hasn't even touched himself. He's actually half-shocked, half-impressed.

"I'm going to, Hannibal I'm going to fuck that pretty little hole of yours," Will praises as his fingers now purposefully curl and rub at where he hopes Hannibal's prostate is at. He doesn't do it for long before pulling his fingers out and hastily reaching for the lube to squeeze more out. Hannibal is going to be a mess, but Will doesn't care.

There's no warning given before he's sliding three fingers in. "Going to fuck my girl, nice and hard and deep." Will's other hand comes to rub at Hannibal's ass as he shuffles closer on his knees, coming to rest behind Hannibal and between his legs.

"Tell me you want to be _my_ _girl_."

* * *

Hannibal tells Will to take, and Will does. It's quiet for a second and Hannibal feels the hunger in Will's gaze burning along his skin, feels his possession and greed. Will has never had another allow this before, and despite the degradation, despite Will being _rude_ , Hannibal is still allowing it. Will has always been a snippish, caustic man. Hannibal has always tolerated his rudeness, has even grown fond of Will's bravery, his gall.

Now, while the dynamic has changed and their roles are different, nothing has truly changed. Will still pushes, still challenges, and Hannibal still observes each challenge and complies when it suits him. Were he truly adverse to this, he'd withdraw, would shove Will away and leave, but he hasn't yet. Nor will he. Instead he hangs his head and breathes deep, and he feels the heat of bitter satisfaction burn along his skin at Will's praise.

Then Will's fingers curl, and while it takes him a moment to find the small gland within, when he _does_ , he rubs at it in a manner that might be considered unkind, but the sensation strikes Hannibal low and deep, making his cock ache as a rough exhale is all but punched out of him. It's a pleasure of punishment, almost, or perhaps one of praise. With Will, the lines have long been blurred.

Hannibal feels breathless when Will's fingers slide out of him, small pulses of sensation left in their wake. He aches, and the sudden slam of pleasure had both winded him and forced a light sweat to break out onto his skin. Hannibal swallows, and he's just adjusting his position, just attempting to catch his breath, when Will's fingers return. Only it isn't simply two that slide in. A third pushes inside, and pain spikes, but Hannibal has endured eternities worse than this. Even so, the suddenness of it forces a low hiss from between his teeth on his next exhale, his muscles tight and clenching before he manages to struggle past the desire to protect himself. Hannibal breathes slow and deep, forcing relaxation as Will's fingers press inside of him, stretching and burning with intensity, but there is still satisfaction underneath, still a more masochistic pleasure.

Hannibal wonders idly when his sadism had expanded into sadomasochism. Before Will, he had endured pain, never enjoyed it. Now, feeling Will's fingers pressing deep, scenting his sweat and his arousal, and hearing the low cadence to his voice, Hannibal cannot pretend that he isn't aroused by this.

Will's words are degrading. Yet his fingers are a physical touch, and his palm even more of one. Hannibal shudders despite himself, craving Will's touch, craving contact and connection far more than he craves his pride. If this is what Will requires - if he is more comfortable using gendered dialogue, Hannibal has no complaints. He is secure in himself. So even though being made to vocalize Will's apparent kink makes Hannibal burn with mild humiliation, he doesn't hesitate long. He can feel Will shuffling in close behind him. Almost time, then.

"I wish to be _yours_ , Will," Hannibal grinds out. "In whatever capacity I might. If this is what you wish, then yes... I want to be _your girl_."

The words feel clumsy on his tongue, unpracticed. Hannibal feels the earlier burn increase. Vocalizing it is much different than thinking it. But given how close Will is moving, given the way he's pressing in deeper, another question jumps to mind.

"Do you wish to see my pain?" Hannibal asks, without bitterness. It's a simple curiosity. Will's sadism has been growing, and Hannibal's default is to merely set any pain aside, to rise above it and bear it in silence. Yet as he listens to Will's words - words like _hard_ and _deep -_ the question seems important.

* * *

God, he wants to fuck Hannibal. Will has never been overly taken with anal sex, not like some guys anyway. Apparently there exists a forbidden aspect to it, considered to be kinkier or more dirty, but it has never appealed to Will like that. It's extra work, is what it is. Extra complications and considerations. Anal may be tighter, but the preparation part is tedious. It's not something you can do on the fly. Maybe next time he'll have Hannibal stretch himself.

But there is something so raw and sexy about Hannibal on his hands and knees. Waiting and willing, allowing himself to be submissive like this as Will fingers him open. Will's also never been overly interested in "roles" during sex, in being seen or acting as dominant. It's always been a mix, a push and pull between his partner and him and that's suited him fine in the past.

(And Will hasn't failed to notice how Hannibal responded to his fingers curling within. Maybe he'd used too much force, but he'll have time to learn and perfect his technique later on if he wants.)

Will knows he's rushing, he's going too fast. Copious amounts of lube can only do so much for this. Hannibal instinctively clenches against the added finger but Will doesn't relent and Hannibal eventually relaxes as best he can against the pressure. Will's fingers work him slow, but not necessarily gentle. His patience is wearing thin.

Then Hannibal says it. He fucking says it. _His girl_. Will exhales a soft groan at the implication, at the sheer gratification he feels rip through him. It's heady, intoxicating.

But then Hannibal ruins it by asking if he wants to see his pain. Will's fingers stop.

"Think I'm a sadist?" Will asks. Rhetorical question. Will doesn't care about the answer right now. "Think I want to see you flinch and wince? Well, I don't. You're going to stay like this and take it."

He honestly can't imagine seeing Hannibal's expression during this. That seems monumentally more intimate.

Will deems Hannibal stretched enough, pulling out his fingers and rubbing the extra lube on his dick. He throws a look over to the box of condoms and decides he'll pass. There has never been safety between them and it should stay that way. His right hand steadies his cock as his other hand braces Hannibal's hip as Will presses his cockhead against Hannibal's swollen hole and nudges his way in with a sharp curse.

* * *

In this moment, Hannibal's question is not meant as a condemnation, but rather a matter of practicality. If this is about seeing him suffer, about _punishment_ instead of pleasure, Hannibal needs to know. His default is to brace himself against pain, but if Will would rather him react, would rather him tear down his filter and see the effects of the very likely possibility that this will hurt, Hannibal needs to know.

He doesn't lie to himself and claim that this moment is for him, though the sudden flood of distant intimacy is still a gift that Hannibal holds tightly to his chest. This is for Will. This is a test, another desire that Will is carefully selecting out of a list of his own taboos to try. Part of him is likely expecting Hannibal to disagree, to _not_ cater to his desires, but despite the sting and burn of jealousy that Will's _wife_ had lit within Hannibal's chest, nothing else has changed.

Even so, he is not surprised when Will's response is anger. His fingers stop (and Hannibal forces himself still, fighting against the urge to squirm, for while he has done this to himself before, it has never been with three fingers) and Hannibal bears Will's answering orders with silent understanding. A sore spot, perhaps, though that gives him the answer that he needs. Will _doesn't_ want to see any pain, then. So Hannibal quietly curls his fingers into the comforter under him, his eyes sliding closed as he focuses on the faint notes of sensation and pleasure that do come from Will's fingers. Despite the ache, despite the burn, it is Will's _touch_. It is his attention, his favor.

"Very well," Hannibal answers simply, and when Will's fingers withdraw abruptly, Hannibal focuses on relaxation as much as he can. He knows what is next, and there is a frisson of anxiety within, but there is no _Thistle_ on his lips.

He can feel the lubricant wet upon his skin, dripping down from where it had assisted Will's fingers in entry. Hannibal knows that he must look a sight. A _mess_ (which Will likely enjoys) and so when Will presses in closer, Hannibal spreads his legs and readies himself. He feels Will's hand brace against his hip and Hannibal aches at the intimacy of the touch. Yet as he breathes, he is honestly expecting to feel the slight catch of latex against his skin. So when he feels a sudden hot, blunt, silken press of _skin_ , Hannibal's chin lifts in surprise.

"Will-" he begins, the sound weak with something like awe, and then Hannibal's voice cuts off completely because Will begins to press _inside_.

The muscles in Hannibal's shoulders bunch, and his biceps tighten under the sudden rush of sensation, but barring a slightly-tight exhale, he doesn't vocalize. It hurts, but it is a different type of pain, one that is nothing like the cauterizing burn of flesh from a brand, or the deep, sharp stab of a meat hook digging into his skin. Instead it is pressure, a sharp, overwhelming sting, and then Hannibal finds himself suddenly and near-completely overwhelmed by sensation. There's heat and pressure and connection, and it is the most intimate pain-or-pleasure that he has experienced. He's uncertain which, for the lines blur quite brilliantly as Will presses inside of him.

He sets his jaw as his fingers curl in the sheets, and his breathing turns rougher as he forces himself not to clench down. Though despite this, he fails twice - once when Will's cock presses past the second ring of muscle, pressing the head of his cock fully within Hannibal's body, and again when it skims whisper-light close to Hannibal's prostate. He shudders deeply, his head dropping back down, and he aches for this, for Will, for everything that Will wishes to give him.

* * *

Will's empathized with sadists. He's felt their cruel delight in causing pain and suffering. While there can be something said about vulnerability and fragility being beautiful, Will doesn't think he's a cut and dry sadist -- or at least he hopes not. He's not interested in causing pain to just _anyone,_ he has no desire to hurt the innocent or children. There needs to be a reason. There are reasons why he chooses his prey; it's never been about ending a life just for the sake of being able to.

And it's not about merely hurting Hannibal because it's fun to be in control and because Hannibal lets him.

No. Hannibal deserves it. Hannibal is a villain. Hannibal had fucked up his life and meddled. Hannibal couldn't let him go, so Will is going to punish and act out. He's going to pull on the puppet strings this time. He's going to get Hannibal helplessly tangled up (because maybe that's how Will feels inside). But if he keeps Hannibal at a distance, if he chooses when and how to touch, if he's in control, it's manageable. It _becomes_ manageable. Manageable is safe. Manageable is what he needs. Manageable is about all he can do right now.

Hannibal would prefer to be seen. Hannibal would like their eyes to meet. Will can't fathom seeing Hannibal's reactions to this twisted intimacy, so while he would likely, on some level, enjoy Hannibal being expressive, he forgoes the option of seeing Hannibal's pain.

He doesn't stop when Hannibal utters his name. Will's fairly sure Hannibal would prefer him to not wear a condom anyhow -- one less barrier between them, one less thing to strip away. And Will sees Hannibal's muscles tense, he _feels_ the clench around his cock as he pushes the thicker head in and then again when he's deeper.

It's divine. Hot, slick and visceral and utterly perfect. When Will bottoms out, his hand comes to grip roughly at Hannibal's hips. He grinds in, shifting and testing the feel of Hannibal around him.

"My girl is so nice and tight for me, isn't she?" Will hisses. His heart is thundering on in his chest and his skin is buzzing and Will seriously doubts he's going to be able to last long.

They'll just have to do this again soon.

He doesn't pull out very far before fucking back in hard and deep. Will's pace is rough and quick and it's much better than anything he can remember. He almost feels winded, almost too overwhelmed.

Will doesn't stop.

* * *

It's intense. Hannibal isn't sure what the feeling actually is that tears through him like a honed blade, but it is intense. Pleasure or pain no longer matters as Will presses in deeply. Were their positions reversed, were Hannibal able to take control and do this for Will, he would go slowly, would carefully read each of Will's responses to ensure as little pain as possible. But as Will presses in, as his cock sinks deeply into Hannibal's body, Will has no such concerns. Either he doesn't care, or this is intentional. A punishment. Revenge. And yet Hannibal isn't convinced that that is the case.

There is nothing but a vibrant enthusiasm in Will's actions. The grip to his hip is so tight that he knows he will wear fingerprint bruises for days after this. The burn as Will's cock spreads him open wide is so intense that Hannibal's attempt to stay in the position that Will had told him to quickly falters. His arms begin to tremble, and when Will finally bottoms out, Hannibal lets out a low, visceral groan that he can't truly bite back. He collapses forward then, his arms giving before he catches himself. Shaken, overwhelmed by the sensation, Hannibal shakily drops to his elbows to brace himself better and he lets his chin drop back down to his chest, shuddering.

It's intimate. It's contact. It's touch. The pain is secondary, the sensation is secondary. It doesn't matter that the crush of sensation is making him soft. It's not about physical arousal right now. It's about Will, about giving him something that he will want to repeat. It's about giving himself up to Will so completely that he crushes his pride. It's about them.

While his physical arousal might be halved by the discomfort, his mental arousal is another matter altogether. Hannibal feels every touch to his skin like a brand, feels the press of Will's hips, the grip of his hands, and the thick, heavy weight of his cock. This goes beyond a simple physical pleasure and instead sings so much louder as an act of connection. Will's voice is strained, his breaths rough, and that Hannibal has a part in this is thrilling to him. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth quietly as Will grinds in deeper, and it is far too much to handle, and yet he doesn't say a thing. He doesn't use the word. Instead he basks in the praise, degrading as it is, and he nods shakily when prompted.

Hannibal is in no way properly relaxed by the time that Will starts to thrust, and he is not gentle, just as he'd promised. Hannibal just braces himself against it, but more to keep a hold on his own tongue. He'd had no misinformation going into this. This is _precisely_ what he'd expected, and were he to go back to earlier that morning, knowing what Will intends? He knows he would be even more enthusiastic to agree.

Pain is subjective, and the burn of it, the ache, is almost sweet. It's a different sort of pleasure, one that rides the edge of intensity and leaves him feeling stripped bare. He feels each thrust and he listens to the hard slap of their skin together, feels Will's throbbing heat, and he listens for each sound he can hear. _He_ is responsible for Will's pleasure, no one else, and it is a thrill to be able to give it to him.

Sweat slides down his jaw as he pants into his forearm, shaking with effort. Will's rhythm is unpredictable, but Hannibal still braces himself, and then he swallows before pushing back, ignoring the ache, the pain, as he welcomes this change of dynamic.

* * *

Will can't begin to imagine how difficult this would be to take, to endure. He's had a prostate exam before which wasn't fun. While he's used a lot of lube, he hadn't spent a lot of _time_ on preparing Hannibal for this. His cock is thicker than three fingers, too. But Hannibal doesn't complain, he doesn't say _thistle_ either so Will doesn't stop.

Will's fingers are tight on Hannibal's waist, his knuckles white as he holds Hannibal as if he might slip away. All Hannibal does is collapse onto his forearms, raising his ass further into the air as his head and torso lower. It's a provocative sight that Will can't look away from. His eyes rake over the Verger brand, the bullet scar... Will thinks about leaving his own mark on Hannibal, one of his own choosing and not by proxy.

He's never been cruel in the bedroom. He's never wanted to be sadistic, but Hannibal's groan and trembling are exquisite and Will knows it's him who's caused them. It's all right that Hannibal doesn't answer him. Hannibal is here with him, supplicant, willing. A mockery of submission, perhaps, for surely no one would believe that _they_ would be like _this_. Jack or Alana would find this ludicrous. Chilton would be appalled. (He can't think about Molly knowing.) But here they are, their bodies connected, Will deep inside of Hannibal and it feels far better than he can put into words.

Hannibal is a tight clench around him, silky and vice-like. Each thrust threatens to end in orgasm but Will tries to stave it off for as long as possible. It's been months of jerking off in the shower, of half-formed fantasies and now _this._ It's overwhelming, it's intense and Will grunts as he slams into Hannibal and takes what Hannibal is giving him. While Will is younger, Hannibal still has more experience. Hannibal could stop this. Hannibal could stop him. End him.

But he won't. Hannibal is desperate for his touch, for his attention, for them to be a _them._ Will understands. Touch starvation is a thing. People need closeness. They need intimacy. But he's the one holding the key to the lock. He's the gatekeeper.

Will slows down, pulling further out to shove back in. The sounds are obscene and delightful to him. He's already looking forward to fucking again, to being able to _feel_ so alive and so much pleasure and have Hannibal under him. They're both sweaty, his room is going smell like them. Like sex. The idea is pleasing to Will.

"Going to... going to come," Will grits out. He doesn't know why he exactly shares it, but the words slip out anyway. He decides to add on: "Going to fill my girl's sweet hole."

And he does. And his eyes clench shut tightly as pleasure shoots through him and Will comes roughly, shaking and hot as bliss floods through him.

* * *

This is supplication. This is a transference of power. One deity willingly giving its lifesblood to another. It is an epic tale of Grecian proportions, an odyssey whispered through points in time, all converging here, with them alone once again. Alone and alone with one another. Hannibal can think of no sweeter torture, like a cruel lash to his skin followed by a gentle kiss to smear the blood around. Love and punishment. Perhaps that is what they will amount to in the end, for this moment nears those lines, and yet despite the discomfort, despite the moments of near-pain, Hannibal feels light.

Pain is secondary, an irritating whisper in the back of his mind as his hands clench at the sheets and his back bows with the sensation. Hannibal grinds his teeth to bite back the sounds he aches to make, but while he wishes to do as Will had said and stay put, he cannot. For the force of Will's thrusts are soon to change when he finds his rhythm. Hard and quick slow down and when Will draws back once more, it is with harder, forceful thrusts that pull out further and slam in deeper.

Hannibal's body might sing with sensation, and the first thrust might rip a cry from his throat - muffled and bitten-back as it is - but he feels nothing but a bone-deep, buzzing satisfaction as he focuses on each point of contact. He focuses on the _sounds_ that Will makes, rough and panted and beautiful, and his arousal threatens to redirect at the thought of giving Will pleasure. In the end, he doesn't get hard again, but he doesn't need to. He shudders at the feeling and he closes his eyes, breathing rougher.

He needs to shoot a hand out in the end, for Will's thrusts begin to push him up closer to the headboard. Hannibal sets a hand against it, his muscles bunching and his body aching, but it is a thrilling sensation. Hannibal thinks about how sore he will be in the morning. He thinks about how he might need to once again _use_ his cane legitimately. He thinks about Will telling him to kneel despite it, thinks about Will telling him they will do this again the following evening. And instead of displeasure, Hannibal feels only a twist of heat and an aching need to have Will's hands upon his skin and his fingers in his hair.

It isn't long before Will's warning sounds, and Hannibal is surprised he'd been given one. He does expect Will to pull out, but when Will only snaps his hips harder and his rhythm breaks, Hannibal's lips part on a silent cry, his lip curling in a snarl as those final few thrusts (and those final few _words)_ rock his body. On the final thrust, he cannot help a clipped sound, but it is drowned out by the roughness in Will's voice when he tenses, gasps, and comes.

 _"Yes_ , please, Will," Hannibal hisses as his back arches.

He can feel Will's cock pulse, can feel a rush of heat - within him, for Will hadn't pulled out - and the knowledge makes his own hips rock, makes him ache for the same pleasure that Will is experiencing but will not grant him. Hannibal chokes out a small sound, rough against his forearm, and he presses back, clenching around Will's cock as Will fills him up, bruising marks into his skin with his fingers and hips and making him shudder and twitch with sensitivity.

* * *

It's more than just fucking. It's more than sex. It's more than a mind-blowing orgasm. Will knows it and he assumes Hannibal does as well. What Will doesn't know is what it _will_ mean. How this will change them. How could they stay the same? Now that he knows the feel of Hannibal around his fingers and dick? Now that he's seen Hannibal get on his hands and knees for him. (Will imagines that he'll have much more to think on in the shower now...)

Will knows Hannibal wants more than this. Hannibal wants more than rough thrusts and hurried preparation. Hannibal wants more than their eyes being disconnected and Will's tight grip on his hips. Hannibal wants more than demeaning feminization. (Hannibal probably deserves it too, deserves better, but life has never been fair, has it?)

When he comes, Will distantly registers the sound of Hannibal encouraging -- of Hannibal saying _please._ And Hannibal rocks back and Will swears Hannibal clenches around him and it's _heaven._ It's bliss. It feels good. There's no pain. It's uncomplicated for once. Will rides out his orgasm, his body hot, sweaty and feeling shaky from all the tensing and exertion. Will's eyes open and his grip lessens.

With a slight sigh Will pulls out. Hannibal is a mess. He's a mess. His dick is slick in his own come, his hand is sticky with lube but he doesn't care. Will crawls to Hannibal's side and collapses onto the bed, urging Hannibal to lie down against him, but faced away. _Spooning,_ Will's mind supplies as he drapes an arm over Hannibal. Right now, he's too content to care about the whole cuddling thing. Hannibal did well, he can have a treat.

* * *

Hannibal's pain is secondary in the blissful moment that Will finds his pleasure, for while his own body aches and cries out its protest, his mind feels far more settled than it has since he'd knelt by Will's feet. The sensation is akin to being able to breathe again after being held underwater. Having Will's pleasure so visceral, being the _cause_ of it, Hannibal can hardly contain his own pleasure, his own satisfaction, his joy, his _peace_.

He will surely ache tomorrow. He aches _now_. Every small jerk of Will's hips as he fills Hannibal with his come aches (though the ache lessens with the addition of the added slick). Yet Hannibal feels nothing but a deep contentment that is only edged with anxiety, for he knows as well as Will does that this is the moment where Will is likely going to instruct him to leave.

Will stays within him for as long as he can, but eventually his grip fades, and Hannibal's lips twist into a mild grimace as Will pulls out. The desire to feel him deep, to feel that connection once more, is almost overwhelming despite its discomfort. Yet Will draws back and slowly moves to lay down at Hannibal's side. Hannibal quietly pieces himself back together, breathing hard but bracing for the moment that Will dismisses him. It is not a dignified moment. He can feel the wetness of lubricant against his skin, but so too can he feel the trickle of Will's come down the inside of his thighs, and it is an empty, open, colder feeling that greets him.

So when Will _doesn't_ kick him out, but instead quietly invites Hannibal to lay down _with_ him, Hannibal looks up as sharply as he can. He's sluggish, dazed with the mild pain but mostly the peace he'd had before, and while it takes him a few long seconds to realize that Will is _serious_ , he doesn't hesitate. While his movements are slow and less graceful than normal, Hannibal does ease himself down. Then he shifts, turning onto his side and facing away from Will. He can feel Will's shirt against his skin, and it's not skin-on-skin contact, but it will do. Hannibal closes his eyes and swallows thickly... and when Will's arm moves in and drapes over Hannibal's side, his breath catches audibly before he leans back against Will's chest.

He is silent as his eyes burn. Haltingly, Hannibal moves one of his hands to tentatively brush his fingers along Will's, as if testing to see what he is allowed. He feels something achingly sweet and violent twist within, and while he is aware of what an emotionally and physically intense ordeal can _mean_ , experiencing it is another matter entirely. _Sub drop_ , Hannibal thinks, somewhat bitterly, for the term is not applicable, but it is close. And Will's touch soothes even that.

"Thank you," Hannibal manages, and his voice is rough even to his ears. "Any time you need this-- any time you _want_ this, simply tell me."

* * *

Will could push Hannibal away. He could order him to leave, as if Hannibal was nothing more than a fuckhole for Will. Hannibal would do it, too, would even be polite about it. Will can see himself doing it. He's done it before, he's told Hannibal to go away and Hannibal has. It's not at all out of the ordinary for him.

But right now it seems far too cruel to do that. It doesn't seem imperative to kick Hannibal to the curb. Hannibal had looked genuinely surprised by the invitation to stay. Will doesn't know how he feels about it. What he does feel is wetness from Hannibal's sweat, wetness from Hannibal's ass as come slowly leaks out. It doesn't bother him. He doesn't pull away or push Hannibal. It's bodies, bodily processes. Biology. Simple. Will feels calm, a different sense of calmness than the killing gives him.

Will is sluggishly content, a typical tired male after a good fuck but he doesn't care. Will also doesn't care that he hadn't especially lasted a long time either. His shirt is sticking uncomfortably to him, his cock isn't even tucked back into his boxers but Will has no plan on changing that. When he feels Hannibal's fingers brush along his arm Will makes a thoughtful sound. He doesn't stop it, doesn't reprimand Hannibal. Hannibal fucking _thanks_ him. Will closes his eyes and ducks his head against Hannibal's shoulder.

He doesn't know what to do with that.

 _'Any time you_ _need this-- any time you **want** this, simply tell me.' _

"Yeah, okay," is all Will can answer with.

* * *

Will goes still behind Hannibal and Hannibal quietly closes his eyes. He feels it when Will leans in and presses his forehead to his shoulder, and the simple touch is more than enough to make Hannibal go just as still. It's a sudden press of skin against skin, and while he does manage to bite a small sound back, Will can undoubtedly feel the way he shudders, can undoubtedly feel the way that Hannibal struggles to remain still, to not reach back and draw Will in closer for contact that he has been so fully denied.

He doesn't. Despite what he had allowed, he knows how fickle a man Will has grown to be these last few months. A touch lingering too long, Hannibal not answering a question, Hannibal looking at him for too long... all of these things have been cause for dismissal before. So Hannibal simply rests there, breathing hard in an attempt to catch his breath, his eyes closed and body aching. The ache is pleasant though, at least when faced with what it means.

Now that the thrusting has stopped, now that the crush of focus has gone, Hannibal can feel the small licks of would-be arousal creeping in again. The burn where Will's cock had sunk into him is no longer as confusing, and Will is pressed against him from behind. It feels good, feels like something that Will might rip away were he so inclined. So Hannibal doesn't tell him it feels good. He doesn't bring attention to the way his cock hardens a little between his legs. Instead he keeps his hand where it is and lets his breathing begin to even out.

"Do you wish me to wash again?" Hannibal asks quietly, his voice still rough. "Assuming, that is, that I am to stay."

* * *

Will has never been thanked for sex or offered that he could ask for it whenever. It's an exciting prospect. Already there is a curious part of him that is itching to test the so-called offer out, to see how far he could push it. (Surely he could inconvenience Hannibal spectacularly in this... Ask for sex while Hannibal is busy or freshly put together for an outing. Will happens to like a disheveled Hannibal.)

Will does feel Hannibal tremble simply from his forehead resting on Hannibal's shoulder. If he wasn't so blissed-out from his orgasm, it might have bothered Will. To have Hannibal so desperate, so greedy... This is as close as they have ever been, physically at least. Fucking post-sex _cuddling._ Hannibal naked this time and Will not. There is a good chance Will is going to regret this later, but that's for later.

(Because if he just kicks Hannibal out, just fucks him and discards him, that's too much like blatant abuse...)

And maybe it's kind of nice to have Hannibal here and next to him too. Will's not exactly surprised that Hannibal asks if he should wash. Hannibal would likely feel more comfortable if he cleaned a little. Will would too, for that matter... But it's a risk to break this peace between them. Hannibal would get up and Will would have to decide whether or not to let Hannibal come lie back down. They could shower together but that seems staggeringly too intimate.

"Be messy," Will murmurs. "And you're staying."

Will's arm tightens possessively. He doesn't want this moment to be broken, to tilt in either way.

* * *

There is a part of Hannibal that feels somewhat disgusted by his own need. He is a prideful man even now, but three years holed away without stimulation or touch or _Will_ has made him far more flexible. Instead of snapping, he now bends. Yes, he understands the psychology behind what has transpired. He understands that right now, he is far more vulnerable than he had been when Will had been deep within him, but the notion seems like something he'd rather dismiss as unimportant. Just like the thought of reflecting upon what Will had said, what he had _done_. There is much they should talk about, but _conversation_ has not been a renewable resource as of late.

So when Will tells him to be messy, when he tells him to _stay_ , Hannibal fights back a swell of emotion. He breathes through the worst of it until he can get a hold upon himself. Then, though he aches to do far more, he relaxes under Will's touch, aching, sticky with come and lube and sweat, a definite mess, but content to have Will show _any_ level of possession or sentiment.

There are dozens of questions in Hannibal's mind, questions that make it as far as an uncertain drawn-in breath before he decides to abort the idea, to change his mind. Right now, Will seems peaceful, and while Hannibal has questions, they can be saved for later. So instead, with his body feeling heavy and with a deep ache of both discomfort and satisfaction lancing through him, he settles once more.

"Very well. I won't go anywhere."

So much more to say... and Hannibal doesn't. Now isn't the time. Instead he just keeps his fingertips pressed to Will's hand and lets himself relax. There will be time for vulnerability later.

"Good night, Will."

* * *

It should probably feel daunting to be sleeping in the same bed as Hannibal. If not daunting at least awkward. Will hasn't genuinely even _hugged_ Hannibal (he's not counting shoving Hannibal against the car and gripping his coat). They haven't kissed, but they've held hands. Will has hung off Hannibal's arm and been adoring to then standoffish toward Hannibal an hour later while in private. They're a game of contradictions.

Will feels Hannibal relax. Will can't help but wonder how difficult it is for Hannibal to lie there without reaching to pull him closer. Is it more difficult to kneel or be spooned? Is it more rewarding to be used sexually or simply have hair played with? These are questions only Hannibal can answer and Will is in no rush to ask and know (because ignorance can be used as an excuse, can't it?).

Will doesn't say goodnight. Instead, Will presses his forehead harder against Hannibal's shoulder, his arm tightening then relaxing. The infamous brand is near. Will could easily map out Hannibal's scars, let his fingers glide from smooth skin to the raised gnarled edges of scars. He could learn Hannibal's body more intimately. He could touch him like Hannibal is precious, like Hannibal is a cherished lover.

But Will doesn't.


	5. Snap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would Hannibal _leave_ him though? They had both vowed not to just one day ago, but what if last night had been the last straw? Just fucked up enough to have Hannibal snap and throw his hands in the air. Maybe now Hannibal wants to wash his hands clean of Will.

Sleep comes to Hannibal with surprising ease. In the end, not even he is aware who falls asleep first, but when he wakes in the morning, it is to the sound of Will's rhythmic breathing behind him. Dawn light drifts over him and as he lays there, feeling the weight of Will's touch, the events of the night before creep upon him. Hannibal quietly observes his state, the discomfort of dried come and lube upon his skin, and the growing ache within that threatens to be quite intense once the haze of sleep has left him. He still lingers, reluctant to leave, but better he leaves on his own terms than risk being sent away.

He untangles himself quietly, though when he gets to his feet, it is with a deep grimace. Pain shoots through him, a deep, intimate ache that burns the longer he stands. Hannibal ignores it as he goes to shower, and while the hot water does help to ease the ache in his body, there is nothing that it can do for the non-physical aches.

Routine dictates that he make coffee and breakfast and he intends to, but he does wind up grabbing his cane in the end. Dressing comfortably - in a thicker red cabled sweater and slacks as opposed to his usual attire - Hannibal makes his way to the kitchen, where he begins on the coffee.

Routine is important. Hannibal focuses on carefully grinding the beans and readying the temperature in the press. Yet as he stands there in the early dawn light, he finds himself surprised to note the way his pulse is beating quick in his chest. Hannibal observes it, observes the rush of emotion that seems to have woken with him, and as he struggles to focus on the preparation of breakfast, it only gets worse. He had felt much the same the night before, a crush of emotion - everything from gratitude to grief - but he had hoped he had managed to avoid its claws.

No such luck, apparently.

Hannibal's lips thin as he stands at the counter. He focuses on breathing, on settling, but to no avail. The claws twist sharper within, and it is then that he makes his choice.

He gathers his jacket in silence and slips his shoes on. The ball of his cane feels heavy under his hands, but he leans against it. In mere minutes, he's outside, car keys in his hand, and Hannibal climbs into their car gingerly, rolling the window down to feel the bite of the colder air as he drives off.

He is not in the proper mindset for Will to call upon him, or to address him. So instead he drives out to the waking market they so often frequent but stays in the car.

* * *

When Will wakes the following day, Hannibal is gone. Will is greeted to an empty bed with just Hannibal's indentation left on the sheets. Will rubs bleary eyes and figures Hannibal would rather not risk being kicked out and instead opted to leave on his own terms. Okay. It makes sense.

Will climbs out of bed and walks to his bathroom where he promptly strips and climbs into the shower. He closes his eyes and lets the steam envelop him. He has the temperature on hotter than usual, it stings slightly but Will stubbornly stays under the stream until he adjusts to it. A shower is safe. Normal. He swallows and eventually gets his ass in gear, washing his hair and then his body. Being a person. Going through the motions. Routine dictates that Hannibal will have coffee ready and be starting on breakfast... but what if that's not the case today? What then? What would that mean?

Will dawdles in the shower, staying longer than he ought to give Hannibal time to possibly get ready to play his part. Will doesn't bother putting on a shirt, choosing to simply slip on silk pajama pants and socks before heading down to the kitchen and trying to pretend he's not nervous.

As his feet take him down the stairs, the smell of coffee hits his senses. The relief that slams into Will is almost pathetic. He feels his muscles relax -- his shoulders, stomach and jaw. His feet hurry, wanting to see Hannibal, wanting to know that he's still here (and that Will hasn't messed up too badly).

But Hannibal isn't in the kitchen. The coffee is finished but no cups have been pulled. The sugar isn't out and waiting. Will stares at the scene. It's almost normal, but the few pieces are missing. Hannibal is missing. Whenever Will makes his way down, Hannibal has always been waiting for him. If not, there would be a note stating where he was. Polite.

Will can't see a note. His eyes scan every surface of where a note could have possibly been left and he comes up with nothing. Will stalks through the house -- through the sitting room, Hannibal's study, the washroom, laundry room. Will checks the pantry, he runs upstairs and bolts into Hannibal's room, Hannibal's bathroom. He looks outside on their property.

Nothing. And the car is gone.

Panic feels cold, like he's been doused with ice water. It's a similar feeling to when he'd been strapped up and rolled out of his cell. Will had known that the only reason he was seeing the sky had been that there was a _use_ for him _._ Jack had been desperate. So Will did what he did best and looked... (And Beverly had been sliced so neatly, like sashimi...)

Will is tense as he works his way down to the basement, to the room where he kills. It makes very little sense for Hannibal to be here, but he has to check. He unlocks the room.

And darkness greets him. Silence too. Will turns on the lights and glances around. It's spotless and smells of harsh cleaning chemicals. He feels the lurch of nausea.

Will walks to the middle of the room and stands still. His heart is beating far too fast. He's grinding his teeth as he tries to figure out what to do. Maybe Hannibal just left for something and decided to not be courteous. Will doesn't want to try and call because if he calls and the number doesn't connect, he'll _know_.

So he stands and his hands are fists but there is nothing to punch and nothing to hurt.

* * *

The market is almost empty when Hannibal arrives, for regardless of how often the benefits of rising early are touted, few wish to actually suffer the exhaustion. There are farmers milling about and setting up for the day, arranging vibrant displays of every vegetable they have managed to tow to the middle of town. As he watches them, he sees old friends conversing jovially, and the veritable greed of others looking with envy at their crops. The display of bitterness is one he would have enjoyed any other day, for the pettiness of humanity is often of interest to him. Yet as he sits in the car and closes his eyes, all he can think of is the twisting panic within.

It makes sense. Intense emotions must have an outlet when forcibly internalized, but he had hoped that sleep might spare him that indignity. He doesn't regret what had happened, but after feeling as much as he had, after allowing Will everything, _not_ being able to turn over and drown in him had set him on edge. It is not quite panic that befalls him now, but he needs this time to be visibly affected. For if Will sees him now, were he to come downstairs and see Hannibal distracted, on edge, or torn between sudden, biting anger and emotional panic, he does not wish to think about what Will's response might be. This is safer. This is calm and quiet. He breathes.

In the end, as the sun rises fully, Hannibal forces himself from the vehicle. His body aches as he limps into the market, but he does not leave empty-handed. He catches a few concerned looks but dismisses them politely, informing those who ask that Ethan is quite fine, merely not much of an early riser. He receives a few well wishes for his 'husband' and Hannibal's left hand clenches, feeling the bite of the ring upon his finger in a way that feels almost caustic. Yet as he returns to the car, it is with fresh pastries and the soft bread with nuts that Will seems to enjoy so much.

It is still relatively early when Hannibal arrives back at the house. He feels heavy, like there are weights upon his shoulders, and the thought of facing Will seems almost impossible, but he quietly tucks those concerns away, pulls on the mask of control that he so desperately needs for the next few hours (for he does not know how _Will_ is going to respond) and takes the bags inside. His cane is a godsend as he uses it, but no sooner has he stepped inside then the scenery - and the scent - register. He goes still, looking to the open pantry doors and the displaced items in the kitchen. It's haphazard and the scent on the air is _distress_. Hannibal frowns.

"Will?" He calls as he sets the pastries down upon the island and the bread on the counter.

* * *

Hannibal may detest rudeness, but Hannibal is still only human and maybe now he's clawing back. Maybe Will no longer gets any courtesy after what he's done, after what he's said. He'd called Hannibal his wife, he'd referred to him as a woman. He'd been rough and impatient. He hadn't even let Hannibal get off. Hadn't let him wash after either. Hadn't let Hannibal even look at him.

Would Hannibal _leave_ him though? They had both vowed not to just one day ago, but what if last night had been the last straw? Just fucked up enough to have Hannibal snap and throw his hands in the air. Maybe now Hannibal wants to wash his hands clean of Will.

Desperation streaks through him. What if he's just blood to be cleaned off? Wiped away, washed, disinfected. Just like this room. Hannibal is good at cleaning. No spots left behind. Nothing to incriminate them... Unless Hannibal wishes to incriminate _him_ again. At least this time he'd be fucking guilty. Hannibal could have left evidence. Could have tipped off the police--

Will gives a hysterical laugh and he runs a hand through his hair. It's sweaty. He's always been like this, always been a thrasher, as if existing peacefully was forbidden to him. Will's hand comes to his belly, his palm covering the scar, obscuring the smile.

He's not smiling anymore. His nails dig into his skin. Will knows there is a chance he's overacting. He doesn't want to be ridiculous. He should just call. Or he could rifle through Hannibal's room, see if there is clothing missing.

No. Hannibal didn't even need to pack, did he? Will can't stand still anymore (was he ever?). Will begins to pace, feeling like a caged animal and hating that he's acting like this.

* * *

No answer meets him. The silence is so quiet that it almost buzzes with its intensity.

Hannibal's frown deepens and he closes his eyes, listening intently. He hears no shuffling upstairs, hears no sound of Will in the backyard, hears no sound of water striking tile, so he knows Will is not in the shower. Something concerned twists in his chest. Perhaps Will is still asleep, but... no, no the doors to the pantry are open and Hannibal hadn't left them ajar. The coffee hasn't been touched either, and Will _always_ has coffee in the morning, regardless of whether or not he's in a foul mood.

At first, Hannibal is somewhat alarmed until he turns and sees Will's shoes still by the front door. So either he'd left without his shoes, or he's still in the house. Confusion hardly has time to gain a foothold before Hannibal understands at once: the basement is sound-proofed for a reason. Will must be downstairs. And, given how stressed his scent is - thick and sour with sweat despite a shower - Hannibal does not waste time as he strips his jacket off and heads for the basement immediately. His cane adds a slightly-skewed sound to his steps, but they are as quick as he can manage.

The moment he's on the steps and the door has closed behind him, Hannibal hears the sound of Will's footsteps, quick, clearly stressed. Despite the roughness that Hannibal feels within himself, Will is still his concern. Hannibal grimaces as he limps down the stairs but his expression clears before he comes into sight.

"Will, what's wrong?" Hannibal demands, for one glance is all that is required for him to see the depth of Will's stress. He may bow to this man, but any time that Will has been in danger in the past few months, Hannibal has come to his aide. This is no different.

* * *

Silence can be maddening. Will had nothing but the silence while locked up under Chilton's reign. Will had spent most of his time in his own mind, sifting through his memories, searching for the missing pieces, trying his damnedest to put two and two together. He can still remember the absolute horror of recalling Hannibal feeding a tube down his throat and then Abigail's ear...

They are so messed up. Will had tried to move on, to forget. He hadn't written Hannibal back ( _although you couldn't quite manage to not read the letters, could you_? _No, you were still desperate for a drop, for just a taste of him--_ ).

Will rubs at his eyes. His sock feet are soundless on the floor and yet they ring out like hooves. _Clip-clop, clip-clop._ Like his beautiful stag that both follows and leads at times.

It's just the absence of a note. There are no other indications that Hannibal left.

But it's just the morning after Will had done all of _that._

He can't imagine what Hannibal is feeling or thinking. Will doesn't often want to. He skims along the surface, doesn't care to dip much lower than that lest Hannibal get his tentacles around him and pull him down like some magnificent sea monster of old.

And then he's not alone, his very own loch ness monster coming up to the surface. Hannibal's voice startles him and Will turns to see Hannibal in the doorway.

Hannibal has watched from that position a few times. Hannibal has watched him kill. But now Hannibal just watches him lose his shit.

But Hannibal came back.

Will gives a tense shrug, mouth tight as his hands gesture at nothing. What's wrong? Where to start? He's battling between agitation and relief but he can't just admit that he'd been worried. It takes him another breath before he's striding toward Hannibal.

"You didn't leave a note," Will says tersely. "You _always_ leave a note." When he's in front of Hannibal, his hands come to grip Hannibal's arms tightly. He resists shaking Hannibal at least.

* * *

Will is pacing like a wild creature when Hannibal sees him, and this close, Hannibal can almost see the furiously-lashing tail and bared fangs. It is immediately apparent that Will is _not_ okay, and that is only reinforced in triplicate when Will startles so fully at the sound of his voice. Hannibal watches him jerk, watches him spin around to face him, and while Will's expression hardens like granite not a moment later, there is a single second where Hannibal can see what lies beneath.

He sees the wild-yet-frighteningly-hopeful eyes of a man who has thus far hardly claimed to tolerate his presence. Hannibal feels something sharp pierce through him, something more volatile and destructive than Dolarhyde's bullet could have ever hoped to be. In that one moment, Hannibal reads the fear-anger-hope-desperation in Will's eyes, and then it is gone, sheltered behind pride and punishment and detachment. Yet even before Will speaks, even before Will suddenly strides towards him, Hannibal understands what is behind Will's distress.

Will had assumed he'd left. Permanently.

The thought aches fiercely, sending a tumble of emotions through him that burn. Hannibal swallows, and then Will is there, hands on his arms, tight enough that Hannibal's grip on his cane is almost compromised. He still leans against it for support, but there is something wary in his eyes when he takes in the remnants of Will's distress. He understands. This is not something that he had been meant to witness.

"I... did not have time to this morning," Hannibal says hesitantly. He can bare himself to Will, can let Will _have_ him, but admitting to the _why_ behind his departure feels too vulnerable. "I did not mean to worry you, Will. If you're hungry, there are pastries upstairs. You've not had your coffee yet."

* * *

"If you had time to make the fucking coffee in your fancy coffee press, you had time to scribble down a note. It didn't need to be in calligraphy, Hannibal," Will spits back, his grip tightening and his eyes narrowing.

It's always been easier to be angry than vulnerable. Men should lash out, not cry. That's what he's going with.

He knows he's being ridiculous. It's just a note. He can see Hannibal regarding him warily, as if he was a rabid dog that might snap.

It fits. Will feels a little rabid. Hannibal has been treating him with courtesy for _months_ now and this is the first real slip up. Maybe it's just a coincidence, but Will doesn't think so.

His actions have shaken Hannibal up. He's done something wrong. Caused Hannibal to need to leave in a hurry. Caused Hannibal to act out of the norm.

"I'm not hungry for pastries," Will says and then wets his lips. He drags Hannibal over to the wall and pushes him against it. The cane falls to the floor with a clatter. It's an ungraceful slide to his knees, but Will goes willingly. His hands skate down Hannibal's sides, coming to rest on Hannibal's hips.

If he blows Hannibal... It's more equal. An orgasm for him, an orgasm for Hannibal. It makes sense to Will anyway. He needs to do something. Anything. Anything is better than nothing, better than the anger and fear bubbling up.

"Going to suck you," Will states as his hands come to Hannibal's fly.

* * *

Will's words strike with the violence they had intended and Hannibal goes quiet. It is not a helpless silence but he knows that Will is correct. He had plenty of time to leave a note; he had merely forgotten in the rush of his own stress. So now, gazing warily at this man who has taken so much of him, Hannibal stays still and quiet.

He feels the way Will's hands tighten on his arms, feels the bruises undoubtedly forming, and he does not wince. Will's posture is tight and tense and Hannibal expects Will to lash out. It would make sense; while this is his first honest _mistake_ , Will does not suffer them gladly.

So when Will suddenly yanks him to the side, Hannibal's cane tumbles from numbing fingers and he staggers gracelessly under Will's guidance. His muscles cry their protest and Hannibal's expression flickers in discomfort. And, when Hannibal's back meets the cold wall with jarring force and he reads the anger in Will's eyes, Hannibal tenses for only a moment before he closes his eyes and makes himself relax.

He is expecting violence, for Will to strike. In truth, he likely deserves it. So the sudden sound of fabric sliding _down_ has his eyes snapping open. He watches, startled, as Will sinks _onto his knees_ on the floor in front of him. Hannibal freezes at the sight. Yet when he feels Will's hands rush to his fly and the words strike home, the sudden rush of desire cuts through him so sharply that Hannibal feels dizzy with it, his breath escaping him on a sharp exhale of shock. He can feel heat immediately rush down, but it isn't enough to truly get him hard. He's caught, both at the implication, and at the sight of Will on his knees. The _thistle_ hovers behind his lips, for this is not something he expected, and yet he aches. With arousal, and with confusion.

"You're furious," Hannibal says, voice as steady as he can make it. "Why _reward_ that?"

* * *

Doing. Doing is better than thinking and feeling and struggling with the articulation of those thoughts and feelings. If he speaks, he gives life to the words, to the _realization.._. Will isn't ready for that, not today, not here. He doesn't want to face that truth. (Although Will's aware that Hannibal likely has seen enough and figured it out.)

He's not thinking about how sore Hannibal likely is and how his roughness this _morning_ isn't helping matters. The floor is hard on his knees, Will doesn't care about that either. He's not scared about doing this. He's never sucked a dick before, but he'll figure it out -- how difficult can it be anyway?

Doing. He needs to do. Doing is better than thinking. Better than feeling. He's tired of feeling so much. He needs to be back in control.

His hands only shake a little bit as Hannibal replies. Will flashes Hannibal a horrible smile as he glances up, his fingers coming to the button.

"You're mine," Will hisses, his eyes glinting. "I'm doing what I want."

It's not untrue. Will's undoes the button. He pulls down the zipper and wastes no time in jerking Hannibal's pants and boxers down to his thighs. Hannibal is mostly soft, but Will doesn't care. Hannibal also has foreskin which Will isn't familiar with. He reaches out and lifts Hannibal's penis up and opens his mouth. Will's head advances as he takes Hannibal's dick into his mouth.

It's warm and a little salty, but not bad. Will's tongue swipes around it, taking in the silken texture as he sucks, encouraging Hannibal to harden.

* * *

How long has he ached for Will to touch him like an equal? To reach for him, to accept him, to give back what Hannibal has been offering him first? The saying, 'be careful what you wish for' rings true, as despite the arousal that burns hotly in Hannibal's veins, so too does something cold linger within them. In truth, Hannibal believes he would prefer Will's violence, to be struck, to have Will force him to his knees, perhaps to demand this very thing of him instead. This feels unsteady, like an old, fragile oak tipping dangerously after being struck by lightning.

The irony is not lost on Hannibal that one of his biggest sources of stress is that he has done nothing to _deserve_ this. How thoroughly Will has him trained...

Hannibal swallows, and he watches Will warily as he's offered a smile, as Will hisses his ownership (which makes Hannibal grow harder) and then Will bares Hannibal's skin as he sees fit. There are bruises pressed into Hannibal's hips in the exact shape of Will's fingers, dark and angry and painful. As he notes the look in Will's eye, Hannibal suddenly wonders if Will doesn't _need_ this. It's almost unthinkable, given who Will is, given what he's done, what he's allowed, but perhaps Will _can't_ discuss this. So instead he acts.

Regardless of Hannibal's wariness, there is nothing that can quiet his sudden punched-out breath as he feels Will touch him. Fingers stroke over skin, manipulating Hannibal's soft penis as though Will owns it. Perhaps he does.

Hannibal's head falls back against the wall when the wet, warm heat of Will's mouth suddenly descends upon him. There is no lead-in, no warning. One moment Hannibal is reeling at the feeling of Will _touching him_ , and then his voice is stuttering on a small, rough sound that he'd have kept quiet in any other moment. It's a rush of heat, of sensation, and whether or not Hannibal _wishes_ to harden in Will's mouth, he has not felt direct sexual stimulation from another in over three years. It is not _his_ choice. It is Will's.

He's breathless and aching as he hardens, his cock aching as it fills out faster than he's expecting. Hannibal closes his eyes, teeth clenched, and he hisses Will's name like it's a curse or a prayer.

* * *

Will can see evidence of his rough treatment of Hannibal from the previous night. He sees telling bruises in the shape of his fingerprints on Hannibal's hips. Will had gripped tight and hard as he thrusted. Is this something he should apologize for? Hannibal bears his scars, so why not his bruises too?

Hannibal has desired genuine touch for months, if not years. (Who's he kidding? It's been years.) But this isn't how Hannibal has wanted it -- frenzied and Will practically forcing it on him.

This isn't a treat for Hannibal. Hannibal hasn't done well, hasn't done something to _deserve_ Will reaching out and offering this--

But it's not an offer. Not really. Will is staking his claim another way. And Will distantly registers Hannibal's head falling against the wall, of a surprised sound sneaking out. (He kind of likes it.)

Hannibal quickly hardens in his mouth. Will's hands come to hold onto Hannibal's hips, although not as forceful as he had yesterday. It's a little surprising to feel the change from soft-to-hard. Will has to pull back a little, his jaw widening to accommodate. He still sucks hard, his tongue experimentally rubbing against the underside and feeling the bulge of a vein.

It takes a moment for Will to realize that he ought to move his head, to simulate fucking -- to do this right. So Will bobs his head slowly. He feels spit start to dribble from the corners of his mouth, but he pays it no mind. He's forced to breathe through his nose.

He's shirtless, on his knees, and sucking Hannibal's cock.

And it's actually not that bad. Will gradually grows accustomed to it, he sucks and slurps with abandon, with the sole mission of Hannibal getting off, of giving something Hannibal back in return. Because if Hannibal orgasms, it's not so horrible then. It's not him fucking _using_ Hannibal...

* * *

This is not a reward. This is a claim. This is Will's mouth, wet and hot, his tongue clumsy with lack of skill but determined, replacing knowledge with enthusiasm. Hannibal feels it through every fiber of his being. This is _Will's_ need, be it for control, for stability, or for reassurance. It takes Hannibal only a minute or so of Will's clever mouth around him for that realization to sink in. Hannibal's pleasure is not a gift, but a _need_ , and the knowledge both concerns and overwhelms him as Will's hands force him against the wall and his lips and tongue work Hannibal's cock like apathy is not a viable option. Has it ever been one between them?

Hannibal feels dizzy with the voracity behind Will's actions, his cock aching, his hips struggling to remain still. Will's cheeks hollow and Hannibal can feel the slightly-rough scar on the inside of Will's right cheek, and the knowledge only makes him harder, only makes him feel dizzier with desire, with wonder, and with trepidation. He had erred. Hannibal isn't so far gone as to forget that.

Even with Will Graham on his knees, his lips shining with saliva and stretched obscenely around Hannibal's cock when he dares to look, Hannibal knows that he had made a _mistake_. A note. A simple courtesy. He wonders what his recompense will be, and despite his uncertainty, he is equally curious what will happen.

Then Will's head begins to move, bobbing clumsily at first before Will manages to find a rhythm. Hannibal chokes on a moan he can't bite back, his muscles trembling as Will sucks, as his tongue curls and rubs and his lips form a wet, obscene seal around him. The sounds are lewd, wet and improper, and as seconds bleed into minutes, Hannibal is not given a choice whether or not to give into this pleasure. For how could he _not?_

How can he withstand a sudden crush of intimacy? Of single-minded focus from the man he desires it from the most? There is no way; Hannibal's body is too sensitive and his mind too desperate. It isn't long before his muscles begin to tremble, and until Hannibal's breathing turns ragged and unsteady in an attempt to release energy without moaning.

It doesn't work. It can't. Hannibal's fingers twitch and he digs his nails into the wall as warmth begins to pool within. Hannibal shakes with it, voice cracking, and while _thistle_ remains just a breath behind him, he doesn't voice it. Instead, he grinds out,

" _Will--_... s-stop, I'm close," in an attempt to warn, but Will's care has long been set aside.

Dire as this feels, Hannibal makes himself look down upon Will, at the mess of his lips and the flush to his cheeks, at the sight of his cock disappearing rhythmically past Will's lips. Hannibal has a single moment to think words like _beautiful_ and phrases like _no regrets_ and _worth it_ , and then the scale tips and the guillotine falls.

He comes like the act is painful, the pleasure making his discomfort from the night before flare alongside it. Hannibal's cry is loud and trembling, almost a sob as visceral pleasure tears and pulses through him and he writhes desperately against the wall.

* * *

Doing. Taking. Giving. (Forcing.) It's all better than thinking and feeling. It's better than acknowledging his worry over Hannibal potentially leaving (him). Fear. Yeah, Will had felt fearful. Had begun to feel panicked even. Even now, mouth full of dick and his senses focused on the new stimuli - this new experience - Will still feels on edge, like he's teetering and the right gust of wind would send him overboard.

He doesn't want to fall. So Will gives it his all. He's unpracticed in this. His only experience is on the receiving end which is obviously, much easier. Dick sucking is uncomfortable. It's messy. He feels on the verge of gagging a few times, but Hannibal thankfully doesn't fuck into his mouth (polite).

Apathy is the enemy. Will wants them closer, wants Hannibal shaken up and needing him with every particle of his being. Hate isn't the opposite of love -- it's apathy. Freedom from emotion, from passion. Will doesn't want that. Hannibal must be shackled to him. Mind, body, soul. Present and future. There is to be no freedom, no absence of pain and passion. Not if Will can help it.

And Will feels Hannibal tremble. He hopes Hannibal will come soon as his jaw has started to ache. When Will hears a wrecked warning, it's only encouragement. Will has already figured that he'll have to swallow. It's just a matter of convenience, really.

And then Hannibal is coming, his dick shooting off in Will's mouth. It's hot and bitter and not tasty. Will does gag as some of the come hits the back of his throat. He's aware of Hannibal's cry, of how his body shakes with pleasure, but Will is more focused on managing to pull off and swallow than anything else.

He's mostly successful. Will forces himself to swallow, wincing at the taste and how strange it feels to be in this position. He tries to catch his breath, to rein himself in, to calm down. But he still feels unhinged.

* * *

The pleasure is absolute. Despite Hannibal's reservations and concerns, he cannot deny the physical release at its core. He is not emotionally connected with it, but he doesn't care as it pulses through him, his vision whiting, his body shaking, his hands desperate to grab Will's hair and keep him there. It's not the orgasm that truly fells him, but the touch, the closeness, the intimacy. Despite the gnawing uncertainty, Hannibal is not able to dismiss contact so quickly. So as he feels Will's mouth work around him, as the knowledge that Will is _swallowing_ strikes him low, Hannibal's legs begin to shake at the sheer force of his orgasm, of the intimacy.

Will draws back to swallow and Hannibal awkwardly catches himself for only a moment before he gives in to the indignity. He slides back against the wall, and while he aches with discomfort when he sits upon the floor, it is all he can do as he struggles to catch his breath, twitching and trembling as he looks at Will with a mixture of trepidation and awe. There is no precedence for this. And when Hannibal dares to meet his eye, the sight of Will's expression is enough to send a twist of anxiety through him.

It is not a sensation that Hannibal is familiar with as of late. Despite everything that they are - despite the inequality and Will's behavior - Hannibal has tolerated it. He has honestly enjoyed it, for while their new interaction is based in punishment, in obsession, in _Will_ holding the control... Hannibal has still given it to him. He still allows it. He still watches with rapt fascination as Will acts. He still _stays_.

Which is the problem now. Hannibal looks at this man, at the way his eyes are downcast, at the saliva upon his chin and the hint of come along his lips, and he sees Will's dropped control. If he were going to steal it back, to change the tides, now would be the time to act, when Will's underbelly is so recklessly exposed. He could reach over and touch, and he doubts that Will would deny him.

"Will you permit me to retrieve a cloth?" Hannibal asks instead, his voice quiet. "To clean you up?"

* * *

Will doesn't know what this means. What this changes. If anything. He hadn't thought-- No. He had hoped the fucking wouldn't change things, but Hannibal had all but fled their property in the morning. What's Will supposed to think? Maybe sex is the enemy. Maybe introducing and shoving this new aspect upon them has been a mistake. He can still taste Hannibal's come in his mouth. His lower face is wet and messy. His hair feels like a mess. Will is a mess.

But maybe Hannibal is more of a mess because he literally slides down to sit on the floor (which can't feel great on bare skin nor from the sex last night). Hannibal looks ravaged by orgasm and Will doesn't think it's entirely a good thing. There's no pride or arrogance in having gotten Hannibal off. It's just a fact. He acted. He reacted. Will did this. Had Hannibal even given him his permission?

No, not really.

Hannibal has _thistle,_ but that's it. At the heart of it, Hannibal is still a male. Most guys wouldn't turn down the offer of a blowjob, especially from someone they... want? Someone they love? He knows the words, but it's still strange to attach them to Hannibal at times.

They regard each other. Will feeling lost and uncomfortable, Hannibal looking bewildered, maybe awed? Will is still on his knees, his hands no longer on Hannibal but beside him. His breathing is starting to lessen, his body calming down from the abrupt exertion of the task.

The question is innocent. It's Hannibal trying to be careful. Will gets it. But he doesn't want Hannibal leaving. He doesn't want Hannibal awkwardly standing up, pulling up his boxers and pants and hobbling up the damn stairs while Will waits.

Instead, Will's eyes narrow. "You're not going anywhere," he says. His voice sounds hollow even to him. Will crawls closer and he bends his head in toward Hannibal's chest and wipes his mouth off on Hannibal's sweater.

"Would you let me do anything to you now? You a masochist for me, Hannibal?" Will asks as his hands come to grip into Hannibal's shirt and he shakes him. Will's not sure what he's even feeling other than frustration and a distinct off-ness.

* * *

The look they share is lost: Hannibal wary, dazed, and ill-footed, and Will appearing lost and numb and irritated. Together they catch their breath and Hannibal swears that he can almost feel the floor beneath them tip. For if their metaphorical foundation has suddenly begun to crumble, why should their physical one not do the same? This has never been sustainable. Their recovery has never had rules. Will hasn't ever _told_ Hannibal that he's not _allowed_ to touch him whenever he wishes, but Will's actions have made it very clear.

They speak. They share thoughts and ideas over dinner, empty compliments, and comments. It's cordial.

The _real_ conversation has been one of body language. Of Will standing tall, his lips thin, his shoulders set, of the way he'd tensed when Hannibal had dared to touch him, the way he'd stormed away when Hannibal had attempted to touch with _affection_. It's classical conditioning, and Will has done it effortlessly.

So now, seeing him _kneel_ , seeing him look as disquieted as Hannibal feels, the sight of it shakes Hannibal to his core. He had not realized how much stock he'd been putting into _Will's_ predictable instability until now. Now he can only gaze at Will's hollowed expression, his messy face and slumped shoulders, and fight the warring reactions. He aches to soothe, but he also aches to temper the storm. So he offers to go, to give Will time to recollect himself.

Will's gaze hardens immediately and Hannibal twitches back. It is not a flinch, but there is something wary in his eyes as Will crawls in close. Yet even despite the wariness, Hannibal's gaze is rapt. He feels oddly heavy, displaced, and still affected from before, but Will's presence demands attention. So when Will leans in and suddenly wipes his face off on Hannibal's sweater, Hannibal frowns but doesn't move back. He doesn't protest.

Will's hands come to his sweater, fisting in it and _shaking_ him, and the sensation sends sharp shocks of discomfort through him. Hannibal half-winces, as he hasn't quite managed to drag himself back together just yet. Yet there is nothing hesitant in his gaze as he listens to Will, thinks of the implications - everything Will could _do_ \- and feels the answering thrill. He's still for only a moment before he nods, and just like that, Hannibal seems to come back to himself. Breathless and flushed and on uneven ground, he looks to Will and finds his footing.

"Yes," Hannibal says, still breathless, his eyes all but flashing in the low-light. "Have you not already staked your claim on me, Will? Have you not already proven that I belong to you?"

* * *

Is Will a disgruntled lover or a disapproving parent? Not even he knows why he shakes Hannibal, why he seeks to reprimand him in response to a completely practical offer. He may be challenging Hannibal, may be trying to incite something, but he's fairly certain Hannibal will not rise to the bait.

At least, he hasn't yet. Hannibal is polite and careful and Will... Will hasn't said as much as implied by his actions. This last week is tipping the scale, however. More genuine conversation has taken root and Will isn't sure he exactly _likes_ it.

The unspoken-but-implied is _safe._ Has been safe at least. The spoken, giving voice to feelings and thoughts... It's unchartered territory between them and Will isn't sure they could even map it.

If his idea had been to horde touch and intimacy from Hannibal, to withhold and use it as a treat... What was this? Will's still furious about the note. Because if the goddamn note had been left, he wouldn't have become worried, he wouldn't have been filled with doubt and panic. He wouldn't have done _this._

Going to his knees. Forcing a blowjob on Hannibal. Sucking him until he came. Swallowing. And still, he's not running. He's not letting Hannibal leave either. Will doesn't know what will happen if either of them leaves.

So he shakes Hannibal. Will is in between Hannibal's legs. Hannibal's slacks and boxers are still down. His cock surely softening and wet. Will is aware of the proximity to Hannibal's genitals. And Will asks questions he already knows the answers to.

Of course _yes_. Hannibal says yes. Tells him yes. Talks about claims. That he's proven it. Will shakes Hannibal again. He feels a surge of _something._ Power. Responsibility. Anger that Hannibal would let himself be owned (and a relief that it is the case).

"You do belong to me, don't you? My little wife, my ball and chain," Will growls out and he's not thinking as his head drops to Hannibal's neck and Will forces himself in close, kissing and biting at Hannibal's skin as his hands fly into Hannibal's hair and grip tight.

Doing. Doing has always been better.

* * *

Hannibal speaks, and the shade of claws slide from their sheaths to find purchase on the ground beneath them both. At this moment, the muzzle has shifted. The strap has broken away on the end, and one good shake of his head would free him. For while Will has taken charge these last few months, Hannibal has not been neutered by this dynamic. He has merely been muzzled.

Dangerous but contained. _Choosing_ this fate. Choosing to see Will wield power, to see him force and push and demand the way he's never allowed himself to before. Yet Hannibal is not _gone_. His shadow is still full and dark, not thin and tattered. (And yet he cannot claim that concern - that fear - does not also play a part. If one day he snaps, if he pushes back, is that going to be it? Is Will going to withdraw for good? How dysfunctional they both are, in their shared heart of hearts...)

Still, even as violence rises within, even as Hannibal scents the blood in the water, as he _sees_ Will's weakness, he doesn't strike. Instead, he lets Will shake him, he lets himself feel the resulting pain. As he always does, he _lets_ Will do this. Unlike always, however, this time Hannibal's eyes remain sharp, remain fierce. Hearing Will's challenge has stirred the monster within his chest. This is not pushing back, but it _is_ answering Will's violence, answering his goading.

He knows he's a mess. He knows his sweater is a mess of saliva and come, knows his cock is damp and softening between his bare thighs. He knows his position is vulnerable. He lets Will move in closer anyway. And when Will's answer all but scrapes over his senses like gravel over his skin, Hannibal has a moment to see Will tense, to _understand_. Then Will is lunging, and Hannibal hisses sharply as Will's lips fall upon his skin. As his fingers slide into his hair. As he bites and kisses and the ache - the _intimacy_ \- crashes over him.

Will's mouth is hot, his teeth are sharp, and his grip in Hannibal's hair is tight. The spike of sensation is so sudden that it stings, for part of it is shock and adrenaline, and the other is arousal that makes him ache with sensitivity, makes him shift against the floor. He grinds out Will's name, his hands balling into fists as he struggles not to touch back, but his breathing is ragged from this alone.

Truly it is intimacy that undoes him far more than anything else.

" _Yes,_ " Hannibal grinds out, feeling the sting and heat of Will's mouth, welcoming it for as long as it's granted. "As it should be. You've allowed me to maintain this home, to watch you kill, to feed you, and now to share your bed. To give you pleasure. What else will you ask of me? To stay silent? To dress the part? To let you have me here? You already have me."

* * *

Where is the control? Where is the power between them? Will isn't quite certain. The leash has been dropped. It was once securely in Will's hand, wrapped around a few times, tight, but has it been chewed through or has Will's hand shaken and simply let it go? When had it changed? How has it devolved into him nearly mauling at Hannibal, his hands desperate and his mouth hungry to claim and taste?

Will thinks it's the bath. Goading Hannibal. Inviting Hannibal to get in with his damn clothes on. Letting Hannibal touch his throat (putting Hannibal's hand there), jerking his dick. Getting Hannibal to kneel for him. Petting his hair. Treating him like a dog. And then their public spectacle, Will's question about Hannibal getting fed up, Will nearly hugging Hannibal, insisting that he wasn't going anywhere either. The fucking. Wife. Holding Hannibal after. And then this morning's panic.

It's all a mess now, lines blurred and Will feels both pissed off and so utterly relieved that Hannibal allows him to act out, that Hannibal _remains_. He hears Hannibal hiss out his name. He knows he's shocked Hannibal, and yet Hannibal basks in the attention, in the single-minded focus of Will's assault. He alternates between kissing and biting at Hannibal's neck, not concerned if he's going to leave more bruises. Hannibal smells good. His skin tastes good.

 _Yes_. How many times is he going to hear it? Yes, yes, yes. Approval. Validation. Acceptance. Hannibal gifts these things to him freely. And it's a beautiful rose with sharp, waiting thorns. This love is going to consume them both. It's going to rip them apart, shatter them and who will re-construct them? Hannibal would surely do it, the broken putting the broken back together.

_'What else will you ask of me? To stay silent? To dress the part? To let you have me here? You already have me.'_

It burns. Will flinches and pulls away with a gasp. "Yeah, that," he whispers as he backs up on his knees and lets go of Hannibal's hair. Bright eyes regard Hannibal. "Dress up for me. Wax. Shave. I want that. Some sexy lingerie."

It's another test, but it feels safer. The tests always do.

* * *

Hannibal's neck will bear Will's bruises. He can feel the bites, feel the kisses, and he knows that the skin is already bruising deep. There's a burning ache in each bite and he shudders at the press of Will's teeth, wondering after each bite whether or not the next will be deeper, will be sharper, will draw blood instead of merely pain. Yet with each one, he doesn't dare draw away. He takes them all, feeling Will's fingers yank hard at his hair, feeling the rush of emotional over-sensitivity as Will _takes_ what he wants with fangs and force and claws.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stops. Hannibal is left even more breathless when Will suddenly flinches away from him with a gasp so deep that Hannibal swears he can feel it in his core. He meets Will's eyes without fear, without submission. And when Will backs up onto his knees and they regard one another and _see_ , Hannibal feels something familiar twist within. An old shade, a shadow of what once was. He thinks, _maybe_...

Then Will's command comes. Hannibal is surprised, but no sooner has the order registered then he realizes the sense it makes. Breathless, his neck and throat a path of mottled bruises, his hair a mess, Hannibal regards Will in a startled-but-accepting silence. Then he glances down at himself. He looks down at the masculinity present, from the hair upon his legs and the definition of each muscle to his soft penis between his legs.

Will's command is far more than just something throwaway. Hannibal knows immediately that this is not a paraphilia, but a test. Once again, Will is pushing, attacking where he believes Hannibal's foundations are built the strongest. He knows the pride Hannibal takes in his appearance, knows that no one could mistake him for a woman. Will had taken him the night before, body hair and all, masculinity and all, so this is not a preference. Will is wondering if this is going to be the push _too far_. Hannibal looks back at him, at the flush to Will's cheeks, at the dilation to his pupils, and he listens to Will's quicker breaths.

"I don't have what I'll need. It will require a trip to the city. Tonight?" Hannibal asks quietly, but there is a determined weight to his voice. It is the weight of a solidified decision.

* * *

Will's lips feel warm and slick again. Well, he still hasn't technically kissed Hannibal -- at least not on the mouth. Seems like a small concession. Will is almost afraid of what he'll do next, so it makes sense to challenge Hannibal, instead. To put forth another task for them to focus on. Thus far, Hannibal has seemed more or less all right with the whole "wife" thing. Will doesn't know if that's necessarily a _good_ _thing,_ though.

Will's never been into it but why _not?_ Why shouldn't he indulge in something like this? Isn't it right up his alley for depraved? This is their new life together, he can behave how he wants (at least in private). The Will Graham of the past hadn't been interested in males, but he is now interested in Hannibal. The Will Graham of the past hadn't had a thing for cross-dressing or feminization, but maybe it holds an appeal. Hannibal has changed him. They've changed each other.

Hannibal looks at him. Will looks back. He wonders what Hannibal sees. They're both in disarray, both thinking more than they're saying and Will knows one day it's going to boil over.

Hannibal sounds surer than he appears. Hannibal offers tonight. Hannibal would have to go shopping and head to a waxing salon... Will swallows at the thought of Hannibal exposing himself to some professional waxer, scars and all... Hannibal would also have to pop into a lingerie store and inquire for an appropriate size. It's a lot for Will to wrap his head around.

"Tomorrow," Will counters. This way, it will give them both more time (he doesn't know who needs more time to adjust to the idea). He already feels better that it will be scheduled on his terms. "8 o'clock. Nothing gaudy. Nothing over the top. No wig or make-up."

With a half-nod, Will gets back up to his feet and then assists Hannibal. It's really the least he can do. When Hannibal is standing and pulling up his clothing, Will dismisses himself to the kitchen.

Coffee and croissants. Something normal. Something safe. As Will takes the stairs, he knows he's going to throw himself into yard work after breakfast to try and work off some steam. Excitement and nerves buzz along his skin and he still tastes Hannibal in his mouth. It's a small concession.

* * *

Breakfast is a safe affair that morning but the weight of everything that has transpired is still present. Hannibal accepts Will's help when it's given, and while he feels shaken and raw as he climbs to his feet, he quietly locks it away and joins Will upstairs for breakfast.

Will leaves to do yardwork afterward and Hannibal makes a few phone calls once different salons open. If those in charge are at all surprised, they are far too professional to say anything. There is no shame in Hannibal's voice as he quietly makes a few appointments, mindful of what he wants and what he can and can't show. What he can do himself, he will, for Will has left far too many blatant marks - both permanent and temporary - for the salons to be able to do everything. His bullet wounds are far too incriminating, and the brand upon his back is too memorable. However going in for equipment is another matter entirely...

Then he takes his tablet, gingerly walks to his chair in the sitting room and sets his cane down as he eases into it. Beyond the window, he can see Will bent over the front garden, can see the dampness of his sweat seeping through the back of his shirt as the sun shines down on it, and something twists within Hannibal's stomach. He watches for a few moments, remembering the heat of Will's mouth and the look in his eyes, then drags his gaze away. He has reading to do.

They don't speak of it that evening, and while Will's tension seems to remain and while Hannibal's raw emotions from that morning have not fully abated, it is amiable if nothing else. Hannibal cooks and cleans up after, and he feels Will's gaze upon his back up until the moment he turns around. They drink a nightcap by the fire and retire to their own rooms, and Hannibal takes a long, soothing shower before retiring to bed.

* * *

Throwing himself into physical work helps. It focuses Will, gets him working off the restless energy. Killing helps, but after this last one... Will has complicated _them_ a great deal. It's too soon to pick another. A cooling off period is essential. As is a diverse victim pool. During their time healing, they had discussed logistics at length. Will knows when he can begin looking again, when he can select and point the individual out to Hannibal. It's a process. It's never on a whim, never impulsive.

Right now Will feels the dangers of his impulsiveness. Christ, he'd told Hannibal to wax and dress up in women's lingerie... If that isn't impulsive, Will doesn't know what is. He channels his frustration in tending to their yard. On raking and accumulating large piles of leaves that, for a brief moment, Will is tempted to fall into. His dogs would have loved it... He would have thrown the leaves at Molly, maybe pulled her down into the pile with a laugh.

Could he ever be that carefree with Hannibal? Could they ever joke and have that kind of easiness permeate their actions? Will feels a dull ache as he looks down at the culmination of dead leaves at his feet. He quickly works on scooping them into bags.

* * *

In the morning, Hannibal rises, quietly makes breakfast, and then makes a _point_ to take a pen and pad of embroidered paper from the cupboard. He leaves Will a note, propping it up so that he'll be able to see it when he comes downstairs, and then quietly gathers his coat. There is still an ache deep within, not quite as bad as the day before, but far stiffer. It's through sheer need that he leaves the cane at home, though he doesn't wish to.

Hannibal goes to the boutique first, for his appointments aren't for at least another hour. If the woman who greets him is at all surprised, she doesn't say so. She's professional, and while they never strictly mention that Hannibal is shopping for _himself_ , he gives her the measurements and she assists him in looking. In the end, he finds more than one that might suit his purposes, and given that this... leaning of Will's has yet to abate, Hannibal buys three sets, complete with verbal (and written) gratitude to the woman who had helped him. Hannibal loads each into the car, mindful of the camisoles and the delicate material, then moves on to his next task.

It is not pleasant, but Hannibal had not anticipated it being so. He drives outside of the city, to a fairly expensive spa with a _very_ professional reputation. Much as he wishes he could do this on his own, he does not know enough about waxing to do a proper, _safe_ job on his own. Yet his scars are memorable and so he opts for a place sworn to the utmost secrecy. To his relief, the beautician is as professional as he's paying for.

Quietly, for he has never needed to educate himself on technique before, Hannibal asks questions and observes as she first trims the hair down with an electric razor in order to get a better grip with the wax. And while the waxing itself is... unpleasant, it is hardly the worst that Hannibal has experienced. She comments on his pain tolerance, bantering back and forth, undoubtedly misreading his silence as unease, and so Hannibal quietly allows himself to slip back into _Nikolas_ , a little sheepish.

She notices the bullet wound upon his stomach but says nothing. She clearly also notices the bruising upon his throat and upon his hips. While she does glance at him - undoubtedly wondering if this is an attempt at exhibitionism, Hannibal is nothing but courteous and respectful. Any unease she'd shown soon dies, and they fall into idle conversation as she works. Some places are worse than others, particularly around the scarring but he never so much as flinches, and there is definitely a slightly-amazed look in her eyes when she leaves the room after, permitting him to redress alone.

Which is when Hannibal notices the sensitivity. His clothes have not changed, but he feels the fabric of his slacks along his legs in a way that heightens the sensitivity. The same is true for his shirt, and it is a definite distraction on the drive back home.

Hannibal takes his purchases upstairs when he arrives back home, and then joins Will for breakfast. If Will notices anything, Hannibal doesn't acknowledge it. He simply confirms that their plans for that evening have not changed.

At seven that evening, Hannibal looks up from his tablet, quietly glances over at Will, and then reaches back. He pushes himself onto his feet and then clears his throat.

"An hour, then. Your room, I assume," he says softly. "If you'll excuse me, I must get ready." And, with a lingering look at Will, Hannibal turns and heads for the stairs, still limping slightly but not backing down from this challenge.

* * *

Will is greeted to a note the following morning. The pads of his fingers gently skim along the pristine handwriting. He knows Hannibal is off getting the required items -- preparing himself. Will's heart beats a little quicker until he berates himself and attempts to calm down. (He might stir his coffee a little too vigorously.)

Hannibal now has bruises from him too. Bruises and scars. Will's face heats as he thinks about Hannibal stripping down. Hannibal wouldn't be embarrassed. Hannibal would be graceful and bear the indignity and pain.

Will is a little startled when Hannibal arrives back. He'd been lost in thought and hadn't even touched his breakfast. After Hannibal returns from visiting his room, he offers to re-heat Will's food. They eat together and Will tries to not look for any sign that Hannibal had gone through with everything. When Hannibal informs him that they're evening is still on, all Will can do is give a quick nod.

The day passes in a blur. Will throws himself into sanding down an older armoire they'd picked out as a project for him. He stops before dinner and when Hannibal excuses himself, Will decides it's only fair that he get dressed up too. Will takes a quick shower, he trims his beard and splashes on the cologne that Hannibal recently purchased. Will chooses to dress in a soft black cashmere-wool blend turtleneck and a darker suit jacket that has accents of navy blue. He slips into dark grey fitted dress pants. Will spends a minute thinking on whether or not he will wear dress shoes but he decides not to. Too weird to put on fancy shoes in their house.

It's a quarter to eight when he deems himself appropriate. This is the first time he's chosen to dress up when it hasn't been necessary. When Will passes by Hannibal's closed door, he gives a quick knock.

"Downstairs instead. The sitting room," Will instructs before heading there.

He doesn't open the window. Will starts a fire before sitting himself comfortably on the loveseat nearest the fire. His wife can display her recent shopping purchases in the dimmer light of the fire. A little modeling show maybe.

It may be messed up, but at least they're doing it together.


	6. Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thank you," Hannibal says, once more raking his own gaze over Will, but subtly. "I am not the only one, then. You look striking. Powerful." Already Hannibal feels a small stirring of anticipation, of desire. The silk doesn't help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah. This chapter is uh, the pinnacle of the feminization (with a dash of abrupt Daddy-kink) within this story. Just a heads up!

There is very little to _do_ but ultimately, as Hannibal steps into the grand expanse of his bedroom and walks to the bags he'd left upon the bed (in plain sight, but they've been untouched, and Hannibal is pleased) he decides that it will take some time. First is a shower, and Hannibal is silent as he gears himself up for what is to come.

He strips down slowly, taking off each piece of clothing and folding it before setting it aside. From his tie all the way down to his socks, Hannibal is careful, and even he is somewhat surprised by the thickening of his cock when everything is removed. The sensation of clothing sliding against his skin is still sensitive, and try as he might to ignore the sensual nature, he cannot. He is still a hedonist at heart, and as his gaze drifts over the bag upon the bed, Hannibal thinks about the silk there and feels a prickle of anticipation. Interesting.

He takes his time to shower, ensuring he is clean. Again, he can feel the water hotter upon his skin than usual, can feel the way it slides over his skin, and Hannibal considers it quietly. He _likes_ his body hair; he's never seen a reason to wax it before, but this is a shift of sensation that he believes he enjoys. The idea holds merit for that reason alone, even if it does also bring with it a chill and a slightly off-center reflection when he walks in front of the mirror. Still, Hannibal washes, exfoliating and moisturizing afterward, as he always does. His routine does not change, though the way his pulse speeds as he steps out of the shower is new. He glances at himself in the mirror, then dries off and returns to his bedroom.

It is as he's regarding his purchases on the bedspread that the knock at the door comes. Hannibal tenses, then frowns curiously as Will changes their meeting place. The sitting room is far more open and less carefully intimate. It is grand, with a fireplace and alcohol, and Hannibal can already understand the appeal. He confirms that he's heard, then returns to his task.

There is no shame in him as he selects a sheer teal camisole and its matching bikini-cut lingerie. He takes a moment to slip the camisole on. Hannibal glances down at the winding, delicate pattern from throat to mid-thigh, a beautiful twist that brushes ever-so-slightly over his chest with every inhale. The silk drags over his skin and Hannibal swallows, willing himself soft for ease's sake as he reaches for the panties.

They are... difficult to position, though when he turns to look at himself in the full-length mirror, the way the panties distort slightly around his cock does not, in fact, look clumsy. There is a lewd grace about it and Hannibal shifts, studying himself curiously while trying to ignore the slide of silk over his skin. It will do nicely. And with that thought in mind, he quietly gathers himself together, rakes his fingers back through his hair, and steps out of his room.

Hannibal isn't expecting anything, so when he descends the stairs to the sitting room, the sight of Will catches him so off guard that his breath catches audibly. He hesitates, caught by the cut of the turtle-neck, the way he has clearly groomed his beard, and the way the suit hugs him. Hannibal breathes in and notes the cologne and, feeling slightly shaken by surprise, he finishes the descent to the sitting room and walks in, striding over to Will without shame, though his gaze is calm, almost demure, if not for the hunger in it.

* * *

There are a number of things that go through Will's mind while he waits. One: what if Hannibal looks weird and the whole thing is an awkward mess between the two of them? Two: what if Will doesn't actually like it? How the hell does he breach that topic when this was all his doing to begin with? Three: should he have told Hannibal to go all out? What if this is an all-or-nothing type thing? Four: what if _he_ likes it and Hannibal abhors it? Is this something that normal couples compromise on?

Will doesn't know. He could still stop this. Hannibal surely wouldn't force it. But Will feels locked into it. He _is_ curious. He _wants_ to see Hannibal bend. Will is also curious about _himself._ Will he enjoy this? What else could he enjoy if he does? Is this something latent or is it just Hannibal's added influence?

He tries to not fidget on the couch, but it's difficult. This is... Almost like a date. A real date, that is. They've both dressed up for each other. They're not putting on a show for anyone else. This is between the two of them and already there is a low simmering of arousal present in Will.

Will's pulse picks up when he hears Hannibal on the stairs. He sits up a little straighter, his eyes peeled for Hannibal. The first thing Will notices immediately is, of course, the fucking lingerie. It's a beautiful teal color. He'd been expecting black or red. But this... This is nice. It's not a bra, but... A longer, translucent tank top type of thing with an intricate embroidery design down the middle. It's sheer. It looks good on Hannibal, oddly enough.

Will's eyes widen at the appearance of matching teal panties that he can see underneath. There's an obvious bulge present, but... it's appealing. Different, but appealing. He licks his lips as he clearly looks Hannibal over and then notes the absence of body hair.

"You look... Good," Will says, his voice feeling a little tight. He clears his throat. He can do better than that. "I like what my pretty girl is wearing. Turn around for me. I want to see all of you."

* * *

Hannibal does not allow himself to think on what will happen if Will _doesn't_ like this. He's mused on it briefly, mused on his own tolerance of it. True, the thought had not appealed at first, but now, feeling the silk along his skin, feeling the extra sensitivity, and seeing the look in Will's eyes as he comes to stand a few feet away from him, Hannibal's opinion is quickly changing. He feels Will's gaze like a physical touch and while he cannot truly bask in it (for his own attention is still caught by how _good_ Will looks) he can enjoy the sensation.

Hannibal has always liked being the center of attention. Now, feeling Will's gaze upon him, that is exactly what this is.

Will's first words are honest and Hannibal ducks his head, pleased. The next words are posturing more than anything, but the words ' _my_ pretty girl' simmer low within him. Hannibal's throat bobs in a silent swallow, and when Will gives him further instructions, Hannibal doesn't hesitate.

There is no uncertainty within him as he stands slightly taller and then begins to turn. It's not an affected, effeminate spin with the silk billowing, but there is an inherent grace in Hannibal's movements as he slowly turns, more like a dancer than a woman attempting to show off. Still, when he has his back to Will, Hannibal does glance over his shoulder for only a moment before he completes the turn.

"Thank you," Hannibal says, once more raking his own gaze over Will, but subtly. "I am not the only one, then. You look striking. Powerful." Already Hannibal feels a small stirring of anticipation, of desire. The silk doesn't help.

* * *

Will honestly hadn't known what to expect. He's never had any interest in cross-dressing -- for himself or seeing another do it. Hannibal had still been attractive in his masculinity, with the body hair, the musculature, the male clothing... This. This is something else. Hannibal holds himself well. Poised but not egotistical about it. Like this, Hannibal looks leaner, an edge of femininity present. It's not overwhelming. It's not gaudy. Hannibal's hair looks soft and tousled. Will has the urge to touch it. He wants to touch Hannibal's newly hairless skin, too. He wants to feel the fabric...

But first, he wants to see all of Hannibal. So, Will is rapt as Hannibal smoothly turns for him, presenting his backside. He's pleased that the panties aren't a thong, although they're not a full brief either, simply a strip of triangle fabric covering Hannibal's crack. And Hannibal's ass looks _good_ in the tight panties. When Hannibal glances over his shoulder, looking almost vixen-like in his confidence and basking in the attention, Will licks at his lips again as his hands rub down his thighs, already feeling a little sweaty.

He can tell Hannibal is checking him out, too. Will doesn't even need the compliment. They both know that the other is pleased. _Striking_. _Powerful_. The words are warm and emboldening. Will's lips twitch into a grin.

"Come here, Hannibal. Stand where I can touch you." Will spreads his legs, glances down, and Hannibal gets the message, coming to position himself between Will's legs. Hannibal smells good. The firelight dances over his skin.

Will's fingers stroke down one of Hannibal's arms, from the bicep to his wrist. The skin is smooth and soft. Will's hand then lifts off, fingertips trailing in between Hannibal's pectorals. There is no cleavage present, but the skin is now hairless too. It's not bad, not by a long shot. His other hand lifts and each thumb rubs against Hannibal's nipples underneath the silk fabric; he wonders if they will harden from his touch.

"Such cute little tits," Will murmurs, daring to look at Hannibal.

* * *

Will had wanted him the other evening, but as Hannibal stands there and notes the heat in Will's eyes, he feels the thrill of being _desired_. It's a heady feeling, being the sole focus of Will's attention, having his eyes darken with something akin to lust, having the firelight play across his features, warming them to Hannibal's gaze. As bold and confident as Hannibal is acting, however, his pulse is still pounding in his chest. How long has he ached to have Will look at him like this? How long has he desired his favor, his touch? Too long. A lifetime...

Hannibal doesn't hesitate to step in close when prompted. He comes to stand between Will's legs, gazing down at him and willing himself not to tremble from Will's heat, from the _possibility_ of being touched. This is different from two nights ago. Will had been just as attentive, but it had been disconnected, had been cold. _This_ \- Will reaching out with a bold, callused hand to stroke over the smoothness of Hannibal's arm - is not cold. It sends sensation prickling over his skin, has his breath hitching as something in his chest _sings_ with relief. He shivers, and when Will's hand moves to slide over his chest, Hannibal allows his eyes to slide closed. It is as much a show of trust as it is him basking in a touch he'd never hoped he'd have.

He doesn't see the twitch of Will's expression. He doesn't sense Will's goal until his hands move. Yet when Will's thumbs find his nipples through the silk, the breath that Hannibal draws in is not soft, but hissed. The spike of sensitivity catches him off guard, and his eyes snap open to glance down in surprise. Will's touch is gentle, but the sensation is still intense. The silk dampens slightly from the sweat on Will's hands, and it clings and drags enticingly in a way that has Hannibal's nipples hardening and his skin flushing. He exhales a breath that catches, a clear attempt to keep any other sounds at bay, but it's difficult. Will is _touching_ him favorably. Comments aside, it feels good.

"You... are free to touch at your leisure," Hannibal breathes, shivering as he tries to will away the prickling of arousal. Given the lingerie, any arousal he feels will be immediately apparent.

* * *

Is it the more risque nature of cross-dressing or feminization that appeals to Will? The not-quite-taboo aspect of it? Will doesn't know. Hannibal is a proud _man_ , but right now he's dressed in women's lingerie. He's waxed for Will. A part of Will is curious how far this could go. Would Hannibal wear a dress? Would he cook in a frilly apron? Would he wear stockings and high heels? A corset? Would Hannibal wear lipstick and suck his cock? It feels like this is the tip of the iceberg and Will is possibly at risk of crashing into it if he doesn't maneuver just right...

But he's not crashing. Will's in-tune with Hannibal basking in his attention, soaking it up like a dry sponge. This is intimate touch. First Hannibal's arm, his chest, and now his nipples. Will may have fingered Hannibal open, but this is far more intimate. More meaningful. There's fucking eye contact. There's closeness. There is Hannibal wanting to please him but also _being_ pleased. Like this, Hannibal compliant and obedient, Will doesn't mind touching him.

And then there is Hannibal being surprised by Will's blatant touch to his nipples. It's a nice treat. Will has never cared for his nipples being played with (they'd always been a little ticklish, truth be told), but Hannibal seems to like it. He feels the nubs pebble from his attention and Will feels an answering arousal at having this effect on Hannibal.

_'You... are free to touch at your leisure.'_

"I know I am," Will says as he continues to rub, voice warm instead of chiding. "I want your dick straining in your panties, Hannibal." He then pinches at them. "I want my _wife_ to show me how much she likes me touching her. I'll keep touching you however I please -- as long as you behave."

* * *

Hannibal has knelt for this man. He has gotten to his knees to clean the blood from the floor. To kneel at his feet. He's gotten on his hands and knees as well, has had Will deep inside of him, has felt the warmth of his come trickling down his thighs. Yet despite everything that Hannibal has felt - including the feeling of Will's mouth hot around his cock - _this_ is the most intimate moment that they have shared.

Will touches him like he _wants_ to, like touching Hannibal like this legitimately pleases him. Hannibal shivers, feeling the silk slide over his skin as Will rubs at his nipples, making them harden and ache under the attention. Waxing around them had been sensitive enough earlier that morning, but even Hannibal is surprised by his own body's reaction, by how quickly he feels he could grow aroused by this were he to let himself. He still tries to keep control of it, to paint the picture that Will wishes to see, but with every slow rub of his thumbs, it becomes more difficult to ignore his arousal.

So hearing Will tell him to simply allow it, to _let_ himself get hard, Hannibal darts a quick look at him, assessing, and then allows some of the tension to leave his shoulders. Wetting his own lips as Will's words wash over him, Hannibal feels the warmth of arousal beginning to settle within. And then, quite suddenly, Will's fingers _pinch_ and Hannibal tenses with a sharp sound that he'd meant to muffle. It is not a sound of pain. Or rather... it is not an _unpleasant_ sound. Given the way his cock begins to fill out what little room he has in the panties to begin with, he does not protest the treatment.

"Please, Will," Hannibal breathes, for while Will had told him to _show_ him his enjoyment, the request is also genuine. "Please keep touching me."

Hannibal no longer attempts to control his reactions. The pinch of Will's fingers is sharp, and Hannibal feels a little dizzy with the rush of adrenaline and pleasure. His cock thickens, distending the waistband of the panties slightly, but Hannibal pays it no mind. Instead, he breathes in Will's scent deeply and glances from the look in his eyes - rapt, hot, and _pleased -_ to the way Will's hands look as his fingers play across Hannibal's skin.

* * *

Of course fucking Hannibal had felt amazing. It'd been a tight scorching heat, almost to the point of oversensitivity. It hadn't lasted long, however. A matter of minutes, intense moments all blurring together and in the end, Will can't really remember any of it all too well. The memory is pleasing. It's still hot, still arousing. Still something Will has thought about and wants to do again...

But this is something else entirely. There's vulnerability. This is Hannibal dressing up and standing before him barely clothed, and what he _is_ wearing is fucking lingerie. Will figures unless he tells Hannibal that he can get hard and to enjoy it, that Hannibal would likely attempt to restrain himself. Will doesn't want that. Not right now.

He's still in control and Hannibal has done well. Hannibal had obeyed. Will wants to work Hannibal up now. To explore the limits of pleasure and teasing and desperation. As long as it's his way, with him leading and Hannibal following, Will feels like he'll be able to manage it.

Hannibal's nipples are sensitive, Will observes. The resulting sound tells him as much and Will can't help but glance down at Hannibal's crotch and notice an obvious erection being trapped within. It's a pretty sight. He wants to take a picture of it. Maybe next time.

Hannibal _begs_ him. Uses please and everything. Will shifts, a low groan escaping his mouth. This is far too hot.

"Shh, baby girl, Daddy will take care of you," Will soothes. And his words honestly surprise him. But Will quickly pinches Hannibal's nipples again, wanting to distract them both. He then pulls on peaked skin.

Fuck it. Why not go all out?

"You want Daddy to lick your cute tits, don't you?" Will asks.

* * *

Shame is an emotion for those whose pride reigns supreme. Hannibal is a prideful man, but what use has he for pride when it comes to Will? He has been cautious and careful these past few months, carefully stepping on eggshells and hoping they don't break as he walks. He has shattered a few during their new life together, and he has been left to painstakingly clean up his mess, facing scorn and disapproval. Yet after each mistake he learns, he adapts, and he finds his footing once more. Shame is not something he has experienced in front of Will since he had needed Will's help to bathe following Dolarhyde's bullet. Yet it had not been shameful; it had merely been his pride hissing its protest, and Hannibal had sectioned it out right then and there.

Will is his exception. His pride can hiss and spit and ache, but for Will, Hannibal is surprised at what he will endure. This... this delicate intimacy, this marked power imbalance with Will clothed and powerful and Hannibal essentially a feast for Will's senses, a treat for his touch, is nothing compared to what Hannibal _would_ do for this man. Yet this is what Will has asked of him, and despite the lingering embarrassment of culturally-imposed masculinity, Hannibal complies without question.

He basks in Will's touch, and he feels no shame in begging for it to continue. Normally he wouldn't dare, but there is a look in Will's eyes that speaks of calm control and power. Given the way Will groans as the words register, Hannibal has made the right choice. He shivers, beginning to arch into Will's touch when Will's words suddenly cut across his senses.

' _Shh, baby girl_ ,' Will says, and Hannibal is surprised at the genuine _care_ in his voice. ' _Daddy will take care of you_.'

Hannibal goes still.

He has a fraction of a second to be surprised, to inwardly stumble over the words. He knows the origin of the phrase, knows what the title normally _means._ Hannibal is stunned to hear it now, but as he considers them - Will fully dressed and Hannibal aching and on display - something begins to click in his mind.

Then Will's fingers pinch and Hannibal doesn't stop himself from jolting, doesn't stop the gasp that escapes his throat as that pinch turns into a tug. He arches his chest forwards, both to chase the sensation and to ease the sting. Even he is slightly caught by his reaction, for the burn of arousal - the way his cock is straining in the panties obscenely - is not entirely for Will's hands, but also for his words. Hannibal regards him, lips parted, skin flushed, and when Will continues - evidently embracing this new role - Hannibal does not need longer than a second to accept the change.

"Yes," Hannibal breathes. He knows that he could twist this, could turn this moment and make _Will_ vulnerable by scorning his new title. He doesn't. Instead, Hannibal lifts a hand to the top of the camisole and then reaches over with his other. He braces it on the back of the loveseat as he leans down over Will, pulling the silken fabric down as he goes. Will moves his hand and Hannibal groans softly at the lingering burn, but he still bares himself to Will, his nipples pebbled and flushed from the earlier attention.

"If it pleases you. My desires are yours," Hannibal pauses. He looks at Will, his gaze weighted with contemplation. Then, quite obviously, Hannibal wets his lips, eases the neckline down further, and breathes, "Daddy."

* * *

As with doing anything new, there is a risk of potential rejection. Hannibal could call him a pervert, his eyebrows could raise in judgment and he could deem Will's apparent new direction one step too far. Will knows that the whole 'Daddy' thing is a kink. It exists. It's out there. It's probably one of the stranger ones, but certainly not the _strangest._ He's never thought about it before. He'd never had a reason to be interested in such roles during sex.

Right now, with him clothed as he is and giving the instructions, there's an obvious power imbalance. Hannibal is acting submissive -- obedient. Not overly so, Hannibal isn't docile nor meek. (Will doesn't think he would ever want Hannibal menial, for Hannibal to be brought that low.) Will may be in control right now, but Hannibal is willingly giving up his power. After all, it's Hannibal's money that Will has access to. It's Hannibal's resources and connections that have enabled them to live quite comfortably. With Hannibal being more interested in the interior of their home, in fashion and cooking, it makes sense to possibly think of Hannibal as his _wife._ Hannibal is more of a traditional homemaker.

Will doesn't necessarily think of himself as quintessential parent material... But in this, with Hannibal dressed so pretty and bending for him, perhaps Will feels some desire to take care of Hannibal - to feminize him in this way as well - that he could be _Daddy_ for Hannibal.

The world says it's strange or wrong. Men shouldn't wear women's clothing. He shouldn't encourage feminization and this Daddy-role, but what need does self-imposed shame have? Will knows Hannibal is a self-proclaimed hedonist. More people ought to embrace Hannibal's outlook. No one is being hurt by this. They're both consenting adults.

He sees shock. He then sees consideration. Heat. Hannibal's dick is still hard (possibly harder, the panties being stretched obscenely now). But there is no disgust. There is a breathy _yes_ given to him and Will is now more than half hard. Hannibal comes closer, bracing himself with one hand on the back of the couch. Will retracts his hands to allow Hannibal to pull the neckline down, exposing two hard waiting nipples.

_'Daddy.'_

That is all it takes. "Fuck!" Will curses as he tips his head back and parts his mouth. He licks roughly at the closest nipple. He goes to town on it. He laps at it despite the awkward angle. His hands come to grasp Hannibal's hips, distantly registering the soft silky feel of the top.

"Good girl," Will growls as he lifts off for a moment, takes a breath, and then carefully takes the swollen and wet nub in between his teeth and grinds lightly on it. One of his hands comes to squeeze Hannibal's trapped cock, enjoying the feel of the panties and the heat and hardness underneath.

* * *

It is a calculated risk to play this game, to encourage Will's apparent kink. It is not something that Hannibal has courted before. He had once entertained a younger woman who had enjoyed calling him 'Sir' but the dynamic had been different and he had let her go soon after. But for _Will_... Hannibal is beginning to realize that there is very little - if anything - that he would not do. So he takes the risk and hopes that Will does not view it as mocking. He gives Will what he believes he wants, and the reward is instant, hot, and arousing.

Will's curse shatters the air between them and Hannibal's pupils darken at the idea that he has hit the mark. Will responds immediately, tilting his head back as if supplicant and then his tongue is there, dragging hot and wet over one of Hannibal's nipples. It is sudden, a flash of heat and sensation that goes right to his cock, for unlike before, with Will on his knees, he is not attempting to _force_ pleasure. He is touching and clearly enjoying it as well, and the flood of desire at the thought of _finally_ having Will's attention like this has emotion threatening to crack open his surface.

He shudders and grips the back of the loveseat tightly, his cock aching in a way it hasn't before, not quite so intense. And when licks turn suddenly to teeth, Hannibal's legs threaten to give out. The spike of pain has him crying out softly but Hannibal doesn't draw away. He jolts and the desire to wind his fingers in Will's hair, to arch into the bite, is almost overwhelming.

Hannibal grinds out his name, his voice tight with pain and pleasure, but when he recalls what had gotten Will _to_ this place, he amends the hiss of pleasure into a soft, " _Daddy."_

Will's hand comes to press against his cock at the same time, which makes the hiss sound deeper, and Hannibal grinds his teeth as he presses into Will's touch. The dichotomy of pain and pleasure is thrilling, the two mixing in a way that Will has _never_ allowed. Yet more than that is the way Will's hand feels through the silk, cupping bare skin and letting Hannibal feel the slide of silk over hot, hard skin. It is practically decadent, and the longer Will bites, the longer he touches, the less sure Hannibal is of his footing. His legs tremble as the deep ache spikes but he remains in this position for Will has not instructed him to move.

Hannibal thinks he'd stay like this for an eternity if it meant feeling Will's favor, meant having him so close, so invested, so _present_.

He moans, a tight, hot sound, and while the tremble in his body is small, it is likely noticeable this close. Yet instead of asking to stand up straight or kneel between Will's thighs, or even sit beside him, instead what Hannibal asks is: "May I touch you?" He shivers. "Your hair. Please..."

* * *

Will is certain Hannibal enjoys this. From how he shudders to the soft way Hannibal cries out, it all points to Hannibal's enjoyment of his nipples being given some attention. Will's name is all but moaned out, but then Hannibal amends it and repeats: _Daddy._

Fuck. Will really does like this. (He can't find it in himself to be all that concerned.)

Through the silk panties, Will feels how hard and hot Hannibal's cock is. It's thrilling in a way and it's interesting to see the constraint the panties offer. He's never been interested in dicks before, but he is now -- or at least, he's interested when that dick is attached to Hannibal and it denotes arousal due to him. Will definitely wants to take a picture of it. He wants proof of Hannibal doing this for him. He wants tangible evidence of Hannibal having _done_ this for him. Too bad his phone is in his room...

He can feel Hannibal tremble, can feel his body shake. Will is curious just how sensitive Hannibal is to legitimate touch, to _genuine_ touch from him. Well, they're going to find out because Will isn't done with him. The position can't be the easiest for Hannibal and yet Hannibal doesn't ask to change position. Instead, Hannibal asks to touch his hair. Will swallows. It's... kind of endearing that that's what Hannibal has asked for.

"You can, if you sit on Daddy's lap," Will murmurs after pulling away. "Straddle me." He's pretty sure it's going to be damn hot to have Hannibal straddling him in the lingerie. Will's hands come to undo his suit jacket.

* * *

It is a simple request, but the meaning behind it is not simple. Hannibal aches to touch, to feel _something_ under his hands, to complete the connection. Will is touching him and it feels thrilling, his hand callused but gentle as it cups Hannibal's cock through the fabric of the panties, and Will's teeth sharp as they press and bite down. Yet it is Will initiating and Hannibal left to feel with no outlet. While he doesn't protest - while he _wouldn't_ protest if this was as it had been in Will's bedroom two days ago - he does ache for more. And seeing how Will seems less withdrawn and more invested, more communicative - especially if Hannibal begs - he has no hesitation in doing so. His pride only stands strong for those who _aren't_ Will Graham.

Will's words are like a balm to Hannibal's rattled senses. He looks down, breathing hard as his nipple stings and throbs, sending sparks of delicate pained arousal down to his cock. He takes one look at Will, minding his command, and the moment that Will's suit jacket splays open and Hannibal sees the gorgeous picture that Will makes, he groans, shuddering, and hangs his head.

Hannibal begins to move, then feels the slight pull of resistance from the silk around his thighs. It takes only a moment for Hannibal to straighten again and without protest, Hannibal reaches down to delicately pull the silk up, hiking it up just over the band of the panties before he carefully eases closer. His knees set on either side of Will's hips, and as he lets the silk go again as he settles back down, it is with a sharper breath. The panties pull tight over his cock, pressing it in closer to his body, and he is still sore from Will's rough treatment a few days ago. Yet despite the discomfort, Hannibal does not complain; he doesn't _want_ to. He is finding himself quite a masochist when it comes to Will's desires.

"Thank you," he breathes, and - checking to ensure that Will isn't going to change his mind - Hannibal lifts both of his hands up to Will's hair once he sits himself back on Will's lap. His fingers curl in longer, softer strands and Hannibal strokes, feeling the slide over his skin as the material of Will's slacks scratch lightly at his smooth thighs. Hannibal shivers, his pulse quickening at the feeling, and he trembles as the slightly-damp silk against his chest catches and entices even more. It is the best he's felt in years, and mostly due to the favor clear in Will's eyes.

Hannibal swallows back the emotion of sheer gratitude and shivers, burying his fingers in Will's hair. "You need only tell me what you want, and you have it."

* * *

Will may be in control right now, but he knows this is markedly different the night he fucked Hannibal. There is a noticeable _lack_ of a disconnect between them. Will isn't hoarding his touch or attention. Will isn't forcing Hannibal to be unable to see him. He's feeling Hannibal and enjoying it. He's enjoying Hannibal's reactions, Hannibal's obvious pleasure. Will honestly feels a little drunk off of it.

Will isn't interested in the _why_ of all of this. Why he likes calling or thinking of Hannibal as a girl or his wife. Why he likes calling himself Daddy. Why he likes Hannibal smooth and hairless and in lingerie. It's inconsequential. They both are aroused. They both are enjoying this and vocal about it. They both are on the same page (for once).

And maybe that's the biggest factor for Will. Maybe it's the most meaningful thing, too. This feels easier somehow. At least easier than it has been between them.

So Will unbuttons his suit jacket, knowing that Hannibal is going to comply -- that Hannibal wants to straddle him and get on his lap. And with hungry eyes, Will watches Hannibal work up the longer silk lingerie top, exposing smooth lean thighs and tight teal panties that contain an obscene bulge. Will is biting his bottom lip as Hannibal's knees frame him and he sits down on Will's lap. Will's sure Hannibal can feel how hard he is and he isn't ashamed of it.

(He does notice the slight discomfort in Hannibal's expression... Will doesn't know what to think about it. He's not stupid. He's noticed Hannibal sore from the rough fuck and he doesn't especially feel good about it, but what can he do? He's already messed it up.)

Will says nothing when Hannibal thanks him. It's still a little strange to him. But Hannibal's hands feel good in his hair and Hannibal is a nice weight on top of him. Will runs his own hands down Hannibal's side. Despite what they've already done (what he's done), this is still the first time he's truly touching Hannibal. It's a new experience. It's one he's vested in.

_'You need only tell me what you want, and you have it.'_

"I already have what I want," Will answers lowly. "I know you're sore from the other night," Will begins as he leans in to nuzzle at Hannibal's bruised neck. "But if you give me another chance, I'd like to treat you properly. Want to finger you until my sweet girl comes in her panties. Do you want me to do that, baby?"

Under normal circumstances, Will would never call Hannibal _baby._ Nor would he care if Hannibal got off.

But this isn't normal circumstances. He feels oddly interested in pleasuring Hannibal. In working him up and touching him.

* * *

Hannibal's discomfort is the first sensation that he notices. His fingers in Will's hair is the second. Yet when he fully settles back on Will's lap and focuses on the gentle scratch of Will's slacks against his skin, Hannibal quickly becomes aware of Will's obvious arousal. He doesn't still in surprise, doesn't gasp. He merely feels it - its heat, its hardness, the firm press of it against the lingerie - and he basks in what it means.

He can scent Will's arousal from this close, though it is slightly muted by his own. Not even Will's mouth around him had made him feel like this; it feels so good that Hannibal wonders, somewhat depressingly, when the other shoe will drop. Life with Will has not been bad, but there have been set rules. Hannibal has learned that whenever he is rewarded - a touch to his cheek or his hair, an extra compliment, a smile - he pays for it, or it stings even more when Will eventually deems him finished. He wonders what this will cost him.

And yet there is a different feeling to this. He sits back on Will's lap and there appears to be something almost guilty behind Will's eyes. _That_ makes Hannibal still, for Will has not been _guilty_ regarding anything since taking them both off of the cliff. Hannibal watches, cautious but curious (for despite the bleak outlook, he has _enjoyed_ these past few months with Will, scraps or no). He shivers as Will's hands trail down his sides, feeling the trail of silk and the warmth of Will's hands. If he gets nothing but this - if Will opts to have Hannibal prepare himself and ride him like this - he will be satisfied by this overload of touch alone.

Then Will takes it a step further, acknowledging that he has what he wants, that he _knows_ that Hannibal is sore. He leans in to nuzzle at Hannibal's throat and the sudden scratch of stubble has Hannibal's grip faltering, has his breath hitching as he bares his throat for Will. But nothing prepares him for Will's plans, for his words. It isn't _only_ what Will intends to do, but the fact that he says ' _if you give me another chance'_ , like he'd made a _mistake_ the first time. Like he views Hannibal as worthy of trying to keep content. The mere thought stuns him, and it only increases when Will claims to want to treat him _properly_.

Hannibal looks at Will quietly, his expression complicated. If he had been a man dying of thirst in the desert, lapping wetness from a stone before, now he has been handed a glass of water and been promised an oasis. It feels humbling, feels impossible, and as Hannibal sits there and straddles Will's thighs, he knows that there is nothing in his pride that will make him stop this. _Thistle_ is not even an option right now if it means that Will shows him this level of care. If _Daddy_ and _wife_ and _sweet girl_ and _baby_ are what it takes, Hannibal is open-minded (desperate) enough to allow it. He swallows, and there is a mild thickness to his voice when he finally finds it.

"I... yes. Very much. And I am sore, but... I need you to know that it is not something that I regret, Will." Hannibal shifts, stroking his fingers almost reverently back through Will's hair. He presses closer and feels the heat of Will's cock under him. His body aches at the memory.

"I wanted it. If you wish it tonight, I want that as well. But if your desire is to... to give me pleasure," Hannibal pauses to swallow, as the idea seems almost impossible, it arouses him so much, "I want that too, Daddy."

* * *

Maybe there will be no coming back from this -- from this foray into the sexual and intimate for them. While Will may regret his actions with how rough and disconnected he'd been while fucking Hannibal, he doesn't know if this new dynamic is going to carry forward and persist either. Baby, sweet girl. The caring, the soothing... Daddy.

If their old dynamic hadn't been sustainable, what says this new one can be? Does he want it to be? Should this be something they engage in on a regular basis? How does Will go back to how he used to be anyway? He feels how his words have nearly stunned Hannibal. How Hannibal's breath has caught from him asking for another chance and willingly _wanting_ to get Hannibal off.

 

The look Hannibal gives him... Will doesn't know if he wants to think too deeply on it. But Hannibal looks hopeful and humbled and hesitant. What is he supposed to do with it? How have they become this mess of tangled desires and desperation? Has it been all his doing? (But Hannibal's fingers in his hair still feel good.)

Hannibal reassures him. Reassures him that he had wanted it and Will is very still. He doesn't want sex tonight. He'd been selfish and greedy and he's already fucked up the infamous 'first time' for them, so Will would rather pass on it. He's fairly certain he can do this -- to focus on giving Hannibal pleasure. He's going to try anyway. (And Hannibal freely calling him Daddy... It gives Will a thrill.)

"How does my girl want to be? Position-wise," Will urges. He figures he might as well give Hannibal a choice. If they're at this for a while, Hannibal being comfortable will help. "The lube is by my side of the couch on the floor," he adds. One of them will have to get it before anything much can be done.

* * *

Hannibal cannot recall being this hard in quite some time. He had been hard when Will had gotten to his knees in front of him, but his _arousal_ had been minimal, halved by shock and wariness and uncertainty. Now, while he is cautious, Will seems... different. More like the man he had been in Florence, still sharp, still powerful, still unpredictable, but warmer. It reminds Hannibal of the day he'd seen Will again, sitting beside him. He has not forgotten that day, nor the smile that Will had worn. He has pages of his sketchbooks dedicated to that smile, to the calm before Will's inevitable storm. Now, looking down at him, seeing the quiet power and flicker of nervous uncertainty there, Hannibal feels his heart ache in his chest. The urge to bury himself at this moment is almost overwhelming. He feels himself relax, feels some of the final barrier fall away, and he aches to reach out without pretense.

He doesn't. Different as this is, there is still no guarantee that it is sustainable. It doesn't stop him from wetting his lips thoughtfully as he seeks to fulfill Will's desire for that evening.

He considers a number of positions, from remaining exactly as he is, to laying back on the loveseat and pulling Will down over him, but ultimately nothing truly fits for what Will wishes. Hannibal is no fool. A great deal of Will's arousal hinges upon the lingerie he wears, and given that Will wants to use his fingers instead of touching him through the panties, Hannibal can guess what he likes most. Or at least he can guess what he wants most _now_. He wants access. He wants Hannibal to be comfortable because he intends to do this for some time. Yet while that is Will's concern, _Hannibal's_ concern is Will's comfort. (As well as his unease; he hadn't enjoyed the idea of face-to-face earlier.)

It takes more effort than Hannibal had assumed it would for him to slide his fingers free of Will's hair. Then, swallowing, he braces himself on the back of the loveseat and moves, putting both of his knees beside one of Will's legs. Getting the lube from the floor, Hannibal holds it in one hand. Then, glancing at Will as if to ensure that this is acceptable, Hannibal gracefully settles himself down over Will's lap, the silk pooling over the back of his thighs, panties visible through the back of the camisole.

He takes care to arrange himself so that his cock is between Will's legs, for while the panties do entice, it takes most of the friction away from him (taking most of the _choice_ away from him). Hannibal reaches for one of the pillows and then settles himself down, settling his head upon it and wrapping one arm around it. The result is almost artful and comfortable, Hannibal looking relaxed. Then he calmly hands Will the lube.

"Your girl - your wife - wants to be like this. To feel you. To let you touch her as you see fit," Hannibal says, his voice lower with desire.

* * *

He's never fingered a guy before -- at least not with the intention of having it actually be _good._ Will had done the bare minimum in stretching Hannibal. It hadn't been for pleasure. Will hadn't cared if Hannibal had derived enjoyment from it (and he has a suspicion that what Hannibal did like had been his interest).

While he knows how to finger a pussy, he doubts this will be the same. He already knows that it's different. Will is going to have to ensure that it's definitely different from last time. He figures giving Hannibal some control on this is a good start. Hannibal has already done much. Knowing and experiencing that Hannibal had gone to the trouble for him, that he'd legitimately shopped for the lingerie and stripped down to be waxed... It's impressive.

Hannibal chooses to lie across his lap. Like this, Will has a great view of Hannibal's ass and the panties. He takes the lube, feeling disbelief trying to crop up that Hannibal would ever be like this willingly. Will's seen this position used for spanking before on pornos... (Would Hannibal like spanking?)

And then Hannibal speaks and Will can't help but groan as Hannibal refers to himself as _his_ _girl_ and _his_ _wife._ He eagerly works up the camisole up and over Hannibal's ass (yeah, that's what they're called). This close, Will can tell Hannibal has been waxed here too. Shit. That's definitely appealing.

Will lets his fingertips dance over the silk on one cheek. The panties don't cover Hannibal's ass fully so he lets his fingers trail back and forth from the skin to silk.

"So pretty Hannibal, waiting like a good little girl," Will praises. He traces the seams of the panties, one side to the next. "I'm going to touch my girl and I'm not going to stop until she comes. Does that sound good?"

* * *

Later, perhaps, if Hannibal can find the answers, he will attempt to engage Will in conversation over the feminization. Cross-dressing he understands. Goading him by reminding Hannibal _about_ his wife makes sense. _Calling_ Hannibal his wife - _his girl_ \- is different. It is a mark of clear ownership, and while the words do not fully register in Hannibal's mind as belonging to him, he hears each instance of Will's ownership like a warm blanket over his senses. Hannibal is not merely playing at being relaxed now. For perhaps the first time in Will's presence since their fall, he _is_.

Will's hand drops down to Hannibal's ass and the feeling of the silk sliding over his skin is only made better by the heat of his hand. Hannibal's breath catches and he hears Will groan, and a soft sound of his own joins it when Will's fingertips suddenly touch him. It is a fleeting touch but the intensity of it has Hannibal aching to rock his hips, to grind down against a friction that isn't there as the gentle press of the silk works him up more.

Yet more than the silk is his enjoyment of _Will_. Will's attention, Will's warmth, Will's touch. Hannibal moans softly, the sound decadent, and he quietly soaks in the praise. If this is only for this moment, he will lock away every instance of the praise. He will build his new foundation upon it, if he must.

He takes a moment to relax as much as he can, for the knowledge of what Will wishes to do is still thrilling. He knows that it will ache, that the touch will sting, and Hannibal is not even certain that stimulation to his prostate will be enough for him to come untouched. Yet sex and orgasm are not all physical, and he _wants_ with a fervor that is almost frightening. So he nods, looking back at Will over his shoulder and curling his hands into the pillow he holds. It's there for that reason more than to serve as a real pillow.

"I would wait for you for as long as it takes, Daddy," Hannibal says, masking a heavy, weighted truth behind words that Will hopefully won't recoil away from. As if to ensure they are allowed to sink in, Hannibal shifts slightly, feeling the press of Will's cock against his hip. "I would like you to touch me. To learn me. No other person has that right. It is yours, Will. It has always been you. _Please_ ," Hannibal adds, breath quicker in anticipation.

* * *

Will knows that, before him, Hannibal had been an unrepentant hedonist. Only the finest wines, the finest suits, the finest car, the finest people taken to his bed... While they certainly are not living modestly _now,_ it's definitely less lavish than Hannibal had been used to (at least not counting his stay at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane).

Will knows Hannibal puts him first. His needs and wants are considered to be paramount, to be worthy of Hannibal bending for him. What makes him so special? The fact that he's managed to win over Hannibal, apparently. The fact that he's chosen Hannibal, chosen them. Will is still here. Despite his unease, despite everything...

When Hannibal looks over his shoulder, Will meets his eyes.

_'I would wait for you for as long as it takes, Daddy.'_

And Will knows it's the fucking truth. At one point he'd have surely flinched from the statement, but he doesn't now. Hannibal has proven it, after all. Still, Will can't lie and say that he doesn't feel relieved when Hannibal continues and invites touch, insisting that it's a _right_ only for him. (Something dark and possessive inside relaxes happily from the words.)

Will uncaps the lube and squeezes some product on his fingers. His dry hand then reaches down and bunches the teal panties up, pulling them to the side and exposing Hannibal's crack. He doesn't know why it's so hot, keeping Hannibal's panties on while he does this, but Will likes it.

"I'll take care of you," Will murmurs as he spreads Hannibal open.

His fingers lightly rub the lube over a still-sore looking hole. (Will tries not to worry if this is going to hurt.) He's gentle as he rubs to possibly tease and acclimatize Hannibal to the stimulation, the pads of his fingers just circling around Hannibal's puffy hole.

"My wife has such a nice smooth ass," Will says warmly. "And look at this pretty hole. It took my cock so well, didn't it? Going to take my fingers, aren't you?" He lightly taps against Hannibal's hole.

* * *

Will doesn't recoil from the words. Hannibal is quietly awed by this, for it is the first time that Will has openly allowed something like that to be said without vicious, violent hunger sparking between them. He watches Will as he responds, as something seems to relax within him, and Hannibal feels his fondness for this voracious creature rise sharply.

As he lays there, as Will's hand moves to pull the panties to the side, Hannibal wonders what the words _mean_ to him. Baby, my girl, _Daddy_. Fondness, possession, and _worthy_ , perhaps? Hannibal shudders, going silent save for a soft moan as the silk is drawn tighter along his cock. Will doesn't want to remove the panties, then. He _likes_ them. Hannibal trembles and relaxes as best as he can as Will gently spreads his cheeks.

The rush of air over bare skin is sensitive, almost sore. Of every place on his body, it had been most uncomfortable to wax where Will's fingers gently come to rest and rub over his hole. Hannibal feels the touch immediately, feels the sensitive-sting-need make his pulse skip as the sensation spikes sharply. He _is_ sore, his hole looking and feeling used, but when Will's touch is nothing but gentle, nothing but teasing, Hannibal releases a low breath on a broken moan and his fingers curl into the pillow. It stings, but the slow, soft touch is _Will_ , and the dichotomy between before and now is enough to make his eyes sting with emotion, with relief. Hannibal swallows it down, turning his face away to be safe, and he basks in the sensation.

Sensitive or not, he wants this. He wants _Will_. When Will speaks, the words - coupled by the touch - tear through him pleasantly. The warmth in Will's voice is almost destructive with how fully it shatters Hannibal open. He strangles a soft sound, something unexpectedly needy, and when Will's fingers tap over his skin, Hannibal gasps softly, unthinkingly lifting his hips to push back slightly.

_'...Going to take my fingers, aren't you?'_

"If... it pleases you, yes," Hannibal breathes, and there is clear arousal in his tone, low and thick, almost honeyed. "Oh, Will. Yes, yes I am." He shifts, spreading his legs just a little, pressing back again with his hips, attempting to prompt Will into more, into moving.

* * *

This hadn't been what Will was expecting. He'd thought he'd get Hannibal to model maybe. To twirl and look pretty, to perhaps kneel again. Will had honestly wanted a bit of a disconnect -- a safe distance between them, some breathing room. This is far from safe. This feels suffocating almost, like the first immersion in a sauna, the steam inescapable and almost smothering.

 

Will can't help but want to touch and be invested in this moment -- in Hannibal. Hannibal lies atop his thighs, not technically naked, but still more bared than he had been while on his hands and knees and getting fingered. This is staggeringly intimate. He can hear Hannibal's soft responses, he can feel him wiggle slightly, and it makes Will's dick ache.

He sees Hannibal's hip raise, encouraging the touch and Will feels even more stifled by desire. Hannibal's voice is dulcet and agreeable and Will feels stupid-lucky all of a sudden. Hannibal is giving him another shot at this, letting him touch him. Will exhales slowly. The tip of his finger traces around Hannibal's hole in a tease.

"You're pleasing me right now, Hannibal," Will says. "My sweet girl and her greedy hole," Will murmurs as he presses his finger in carefully while his other hand smoothes down one of Hannibal's ass cheek and then thigh. He rubs against the hairless skin as he gingerly works the tip of his finger inside Hannibal.

He's not going to rush this.

* * *

There is no fair comparison to make between now and Will pressing deep within him two days ago. This moment is not even on the same scale. Hannibal feels Will's touch, feels him move slow and careful. There is nothing clipped or dismissive about this, nothing rushed in an attempt to move beyond this moment to get to what he _really_ wants. Like this, with Hannibal draped over Will's lap, he truly _believes_ that Will wishes this moment to be about him. He believes that Will's goal is to make him come. Perhaps to make up for what had happened before? Hannibal doesn't care. He hadn't been lying when he'd claimed that he had no regrets. Yet as he feels Will's finger trace around his hole, as he feels the first gentle press of it, Hannibal feels his concerns begin to bleed away.

It is sensitive, and it _is_ sore. Will had not been gentle before, but Hannibal doesn't focus on the sting, on the rush of sensitivity as Will begins to work his finger inside. Instead, all he feels is the care, the effort to put _his_ pleasure first. It is honestly humbling enough to make him feel dizzy with it. Hannibal shudders and breathes a soft moan, soaking up the praise offered to him (while amazed that he's even hearing it; can a shift in dynamic truly do _this_ much?). Will's finger presses in slowly and Hannibal's pulse quickens. Then Hannibal feels Will's free hand beginning to explore, and the sheer sensual sensitivity that rushes through him at the slow stroke of Will's hand makes his next exhale unsteady.

Hannibal looks back at Will, slightly dazed. The knowledge that Will is truly going to take his time makes him ache with arousal, and there is a definite tremble in Hannibal's hands as he clutches the pillow tighter.

"You feel good, Will," he murmurs. He might be sore, but that doesn't detract from the sensation that Will's touch brings him. Hannibal wets his lips and takes a long, slow breath, attempting to relax. "You're not hurting me."

* * *

It still seems crazy that his cock has been inside of Hannibal, that Hannibal's body could stretch and accommodate him (not that his dick is huge, just that an asshole seems so resistant at first). Hannibal is tight again, no lingering openness from a few days ago. Will is still careful. He's not a pro in this. He knows he had rushed before, but opting to not fuck Hannibal is on his side this time. He just wants to touch and learn Hannibal. To become familiar with what's good and what to avoid.

His eyes are focused on Hannibal's ass, on the teal panties, on the way his finger slides into the tightness of Hannibal's body. He basks in Hannibal's shaky breathing, on the trust that's being given to him in this intimate moment. In this new dynamic, they both are trusting each other. Either one of them could suddenly call it quits, could laugh snidely at the other and mock them... but they don't. Hannibal looks up over his shoulder and Will's eyes meet the warm brown of Hannibal's.

Hannibal gives him assurance and all Will can do is nod and he glances away, choosing instead to focus on the finger pushing deep within Hannibal and sliding it back out. He works Hannibal open slowly with a single-minded focus. Will's other hand drinks in the smooth skin of Hannibal's exposed ass cheeks and his thigh. He touches everywhere he can reach as his one finger stretches Hannibal.

It's only when Hannibal has begun to relax that Will decides to go pump his finger in a little faster, a little deeper and begin curling it every so often inside in hopes of brushing up against Hannibal's own prostate. Will is getting a little overheated the layers of the turtleneck and suit jacket are really adding up, but he ignores the heat in favor of concentrating on Hannibal.

* * *

Will takes his time and Hannibal allows him to. He doesn't rush, doesn't beg, doesn't push Will to go faster, doesn't demand more, harder, or deeper. Instead Hannibal basks in this attention, his skin prickling with sensitivity as Will's free hand strokes slowly over his skin, from the bunched silk along his lower back, all the way down to his mid-thigh, where he twitches with sensitivity at each touch. He has never had a lover touch him like this, has rarely touched _himself_ like this, and he can feel his cock throbbing with distant need as he basks in the attention.

He watches Will until he sees him nod. When Hannibal sees him look away, he finally allows his own eyes to slowly slide shut, letting this tentative relaxation grow. Given that relaxation requires _trust_ , that Hannibal's eyes are closed, and that he's giving Will the freedom to touch him (or to hurt him) as he sees fit, Hannibal's relaxation means a great deal more under the surface. He focuses on the slow pass of Will's hand over his skin, on the gentle press of his finger as he works it deeper and deeper, never abandoning the care he has shown since the beginning of this rare encounter.

Hannibal's breathing grows deeper as Will moves, but it isn't until Hannibal feels a sudden deep flare of sensation within that he allows himself an honest gasp, his muscles twitching and his eyes opening half-way. The first brush of Will's finger over his prostate is careful. It mixes a slightly overwhelming sensation with something _good_ and full. Shuddering, Hannibal's eyes roll back before he closes them again, trying to relax once more as he feels Will's finger press in deeper, a little faster. The resulting moan is honest and deep, a low, awed sound as he rocks his hips back into Will's touch before going still. He'd not been given permission to move.

"That's good," he breathes instead, his voice raw. " _There._ Keep... please, Will..."

* * *

Should Will use one finger or two? Should he constant try and touch Hannibal's prostate? Should he try and simulate fucking? Will doesn't exactly know. This will be a game of trial and error. Although painfully hard, Will watches Hannibal for any indication that he's doing this improperly. This is something Will is good at, however. He has experience taking new lovers to bed and observing them, in figuring out how to touch, how to _be._ His empathy at least gave him an edge in the bedroom and for a man like Will Graham who had been more into casual sex (and apparently lesbians sent his way), it had been exceedingly helpful.

Will can tell that Hannibal is enjoying every soothing exploration of his hand. Just his hand rubbing and touching Hannibal's skin is meaningful to Hannibal. When he seems to find Hannibal's prostate, it's rather obvious. Hannibal gasps and twitches and Will can see Hannibal's body struggling with the need to tense up from pleasure. And when Hannibal rocks his hips back, Will mutters a curse under his breath. But he's not upset that Hannibal had moved. It's honestly fucking arousing to see his girl do this -- to be enjoying herself. And Hannibal sounds deliciously wrecked already.

"I think if my wife wants to be greedy, she should be," Will whispers as his finger continues to thrust and then curl deep within Hannibal. "Rock back, move. If you need me to do something, use another finger, let me know."

His other hand continues rubbing at Hannibal's panties, at his thighs before reaching down and worming it underneath Hannibal to be able to cup his dick through the panties. He can feel the heat underneath the silk.

"Look at you, you need it so much, don't you. Daddy is going to take care of you, don't you worry."

* * *

It takes great effort to stay as still as he does, for this feels like the first time he has been touched in years. In a sense, it is. Will had used him for his pleasure, and Hannibal had been receptive, but it had been disconnected and quick, more for the bruises and leaving him a mess than the pleasure. And while Will had gotten to his knees for him in the basement, it had been desperate and single-minded, less about pleasure and more about ownership and stress.

 _This_ is about pleasure. Perhaps there are other elements as well: Will's power, Hannibal's trust, a careful stepping-stone to intimacy. Yet as Hannibal basks under Will's touch and feels the quick press of his finger move in deeper and begin to learn him properly, Hannibal cannot help his response, his need. His cock is so hard that it aches and already he can feel the dampness of precome wetting the silk of the panties. It clings, wet and silken and obscene, and Hannibal aches every time Will strokes over his skin, every time he rubs deeply at Hannibal's prostate, pushing him closer to an edge that is not yet in sight, but could be soon.

Will's soft, warm whisper is like a hand over Hannibal's dampening skin, trailing feather-light over his senses with promise and permission. Hannibal's shudder is visceral, his groan bitten-off and decadent, for he had never believed that Will would grant him this permission. He is stunned and humbled by the instruction, and all it takes is one look before Hannibal is nodding and moving to comply.

He bites his lip as he lets his cheek press against the pillow, and he's in the process of mapping out the speed of Will's thrusts when Will's free hand moves down and cups his cock through his panties. Immediately Hannibal's lips slips from between his teeth and he hisses, his back arching and his hips moving down, pressing desperately against Will's hand.

' _Look at you, you need it so much don't you.'_ It's not a question, but a statement, and aroused heat crawls over Hannibal's skin. He flushes with pleasure, with praise. ' _Daddy is going to take care of you, don't you worry.'_

Hannibal pants softly, finding Will's rhythm and finally beginning to meet it. With a low groan of Will's name and another one of, " _Daddy_ ," Hannibal focuses on the press of Will's finger and then begins to rock back once more. He chases each thrust, angling his body against the curl of Will's finger greedily, getting used to the sensation before Hannibal finally lets out a rougher, needier breath.

"Another finger. I would like another one. And... and keep them slightly curled. Or... or focus on rubbing. I want _you_ , Will."

* * *

This is uncharted territory for Will. Touching Hannibal like this, specifically for pleasure, allowing Hannibal to touch back, encouraging Hannibal to give input and seek pleasure, the affectionate names, the soothing... And yet this is where Will finds himself. The once-distinct lines are now blurred, the vast distance between them annihilated.

And maybe it's thrilling in a way. Maybe it's time for a change between them. Maybe this will be a good thing going forward. (Maybe, maybe, maybe...)

It's amazing to see and feel Hannibal chase after pleasure, to become more involved and insistent. It should perhaps feel stranger to be feeling a hard cock underneath panties instead of a normal pussy, but it's not. Will likes the evidence of Hannibal's enjoyment. He likes the feel of the silk atop the obvious arousal.

He also likes hearing Hannibal groan out his name and _Daddy._ Will is considering adding another finger when he decides that something needs to change. He can't see Hannibal's expression like this.

"Not like this," Will says suddenly and pulls his finger out. He hopes this isn't going to be a mistake... "I want my girl to lie on the floor, on your back. Grab the blanket."

There is a rather soft faux-fur blanket on a nearby chair. While Hannibal is a little shaky, Will does his best to help Hannibal back up. While Hannibal does look dazed, maybe a little disconcerted, he doesn't appear like he's against this change. Will stands up while Hannibal fetches the blanket and he works his suit jacket off, tossing it on the couch and then slipping his turtleneck off. He feels better without the layers. The blanket is spread out along the floor. They're close enough to the fire that it shouldn't be too cold.

Hannibal settles in the middle of the large, dark blanket and he's like a veritable feast laid out for Will. Will grabs the lube before looking over Hannibal. Hannibal is a little sweaty, the panties tented obscenely. It's a lovely sight -- another picture Will wishes he could capture. Will then lowers himself to his knees beside Hannibal's hips. He swallows before placing the lube on the blanket. He decides to crawl over Hannibal, now straddling him with a knee on each side of Hannibal's waist and his palms on the blanket beside Hannibal's head. Will glances down at Hannibal, their bodies not really touching, but it would be so easy to change that.

"You like being underneath me?" Will asks. He may know the answer, but he wants to hear it. Will's head bows down and he rubs his mouth against Hannibal's jaw and then down his neck.

* * *

Will's finger sliding _out_ of him is the last thing that Hannibal wants. The sensation is startling, particularly when he'd been getting so used to that deeper pleasure. Just like that, Hannibal begins to brace himself for Will to demand he leave, or to shove him away. He's breathless, slightly shaken, and now _would_ be the cruelest time to do so. So when instead of shoving him away, Will's voice remains soft and hot with his own arousal, when he cites wanting Hannibal to lay back on the floor as the reason, Hannibal is just dazed enough by it that it takes him a few seconds longer to realize what Will wants.

Once he does, he nods shakily, breathless, feeling emotion well up within at the realization that Will _isn't_ leaving him. Yes, he is unsteady on his legs as he eases himself up, his cock pressing obscenely against the panties and tenting them obviously, the silk damp from sweat and precome and sliding so enticingly over his skin.

Will helps him, though, and Hannibal eventually gets onto his feet. Immediately he moves to take the blanket, and all it takes is one touch to know that it will feel near-orgasmic against his skin. Hannibal shivers but does as he's told. He takes the blanket and lays it down on the floor, on the existing rug for extra padding. Then he drops slowly to his knees and takes a moment to re-adjust the line of the lingerie before he turns over and slowly lays back against the dark, plush blanket and feels the tickle-slide of the faux-fur against his skin. He shivers.

Yet it is more than that, for when he looks back at Will and sees the sudden bare skin of his torso, sees the grin he'd carved into his flesh so long ago, Hannibal feels almost struck by how _beautiful_ this man looks. He exhales a soft, stuttering breath and watches with clear reverence as Will looks him over and then slowly kneels beside him. Hannibal watches him place the lube on the blanket beside him and then suddenly his view of the ceiling is eclipsed as Will moves and straddles him. The sight alone has him biting back a low moan but his cock still twitches obviously as Will looms over him, a beautiful sight. He looks dazed as he slowly looks Will over, as he admires the strength in his shoulders, the way his muscles have toned up over the last few months of work.

"Yes. Yes, I like being under you," Hannibal breathes, and then bites back a small sound when Will leans down and his stubble scratches _perfectly_ along Hannibal's jaw, his neck. Hannibal shudders and begins to reach up, then hesitates. It takes him a moment to make the decision, but when he does, he reaches up to touch Will's shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin, the sweat left behind, and he lightly presses his nails to Will's skin. It is bold, but it is still careful. Hannibal shudders and tilts his head back, giving Will room to explore his throat as he wishes. He aches for more, for Will's fingers again but he doesn't push. For now, he just holds as he can.

"Please, Daddy. I need... whatever you will allow..."

* * *

Like this, their significant scars are visible, but somewhat still obscured by the low lighting from the fire. Will can feel Hannibal's eyes, hungry and intense. Will feels an answering hunger within him. He wants to feel everywhere, to touch and taste everywhere. The desire is overwhelming. Will doesn't know where to start, where to go with it. He's directionless in this onslaught of urges. It's strange to want so much and be allowed to reach out and take it.

Of course, Hannibal tells him yes. Yes, Hannibal likes being underneath him. His girl - his wife - looks stunning and desperate and needy and Will loves it. He fucking loves it. He rubs his lower face against heated, soft skin. He breathes in cologne and wonders... Would Hannibal buy perfume? Surely perfume isn't that big of a step. He _likes_ Hannibal's cologne and aftershave, but it's a little strange with the lingerie. Maybe he'll tell him for next time.

There is now going to be a next time. Will knows he wants to do this again. He likes this. He likes how they've seemed to easily bleed into these roles and how bizarrely natural it feels. Hannibal's hands come to his shoulders, soft and warm and then nails bite along his skin and Will groans. At this moment, it doesn't bother him that Hannibal is reaching out to touch him. The contact is actually nice. It's _more_ of Hannibal and that's exactly what Will wants (what his body is damn well screaming for). When Hannibal's head leans back Will kisses along the expanse of a neck. They're sloppy as if he can't quite decide if he wants to lick or kiss or bite or all three somehow.

_'Please, Daddy. I need... whatever you will allow...'_

Will kisses back up to Hannibal's ear before taking the lobe in his mouth and sucking as he comes to rest more of his body weight on Hannibal and grind against Hannibal's constrained cock.

"My girl - my needy sweet girl - I have you," Will soothes, tone breathy. "You can touch me," Will adds on before kissing down Hannibal's neck to lick across his clavicle. He moves lower, kissing down to the beginning of Hannibal's chest. He scoots down to allow a hand to come and pull Hannibal's camisole down to get at his nipples. Will's mouth is back sucking and licking to get them hard again, fervent and passionate, switching between both nipples while occasionally grinding into Hannibal and enjoying the heat underneath him. He uses his teeth sparingly and more to tease than cause pain.

* * *

The heat of Will's mouth is enticing and dark and yet every second that passes, Hannibal wonders if this is going to be it. If Will is going to come to his senses and recoil as he has each time since the Fall. Hannibal aches to let go, to trust, to believe, but the past has indicated otherwise. He isn't sure what he'd do were Will to withdraw now, for surely there could be nothing worse than that. So when Hannibal dares to touch, he is startled to hear Will's groan, low and melodic. He feels the press of lips and tongue and teeth against his throat and he shudders, aching to pull Will closer, to encourage, to _have_ , but doubt still lingers.

Before it can fully take hold, however, Will sees fit to move. Hannibal feels the slow press of kisses up to his ear and then the heat of Will's mouth again. Hearing his breath so close, feeling the wet heat around his earlobe and the scratch of Will's beard, Hannibal shudders. The addition of Will's weight - of his heat and the sudden press of Will's clothed cock against his own - is like a sudden fire under his skin. Hannibal's gasp is softer, his nails biting into Will's shoulders harder, but he cannot help the tighter groan that he lets out after. Immediately Hannibal lifts his own hips, feeling the slide of silk against his cock, along with the roughness of Will's slacks. Yet it is the way Will moves, the way he rocks - and moves the silk over Hannibal's bare skin - that truly threatens to shatter him.

He _feels_ shattered when Will speaks, his voice low, soothing, and _kind_. Hannibal's eyes suddenly sting, for not only does this attire and the meaning behind it leave him exposed, it also leaves him vulnerable. Yet Will is not pressing his advantage. He is not mocking or sneering. Instead his voice is low and warm, his words soft and encouraging, and when Will kisses down Hannibal's skin, when he carefully manipulates the soft silk of the camisole to once again find Hannibal's nipples with his lips and tongue and teeth, Hannibal arches up off of the blanket with a low, bitten-back sound. Will licks and sucks and moves from one nipple to the next, his beard rough but his mouth hot.

It isn't long before Hannibal's nails dig into Will's shoulders properly, until his hands skim over Will's warm, slightly-slick skin like a man clutching for purchase at the edge of a cliff. Hannibal's so hard that it hurts when Will begins to grind into him again, and his teeth grit as his head falls back against the blanket behind him. His expression is nothing shy of _exultant_ and Hannibal rolls his hips back, clutching at Will and grinding up to meet him as his clever tongue teases so perfectly. His nipples pebble once more and Hannibal shakes as Will's teeth tease them. He feels deliciously strung out on a pleasure he had not expected, and when he begins to breathe soft pleas under his breath, the fingers of one hand once more bury into Will's hair, stroking and encouraging as Hannibal arches under him.

"Perfect," he whispers, " _oh_ , Will - _Daddy_ \- please."

* * *

Hannibal is receptive, drinking up every touch and shuddering beneath him. It's damn hot, hotter than it should be. Will's had expressive partners before, but Hannibal is something entirely different. Will has seen this man keep his composure under great duress. Hannibal had endured incarceration without much fuss. And now after, life with Will, Hannibal has kept himself restrained -- tempered.

Will doesn't care for that anymore, for the deliberate side-stepping, for their actions to be dictated in consideration and distance. So Will presses in and feels Hannibal's body, not soft and curvaceous, but lean with muscles, his skin smooth from the waxing and wrapped in decadent silk like a present -- a present Will both wants and doesn't want to unwrap. Hannibal rocks into him, and just the slight bit of friction and attention feels amazing for Will. Hannibal makes encouraging sounds that Will thoroughly enjoys. Nails dig into his skin harder and Will relishes in the small bite of pain that accompanies it. He's always thought sex should involve varied intense sensations.

While he likes breasts, lavishing attention on Hannibal's nipples is still good. Will doesn't feel like he's _missing out_ on anything. Hannibal is responsive like a woman, anyhow. Nipples harden from his ministrations and Will is more than satisfied by the pleas he begins to hear. It's only when Hannibal uses _Daddy_ again in conjunction with _please_ that Will thinks he may need to change what he's doing.

"If you were really a girl, you'd be sopping wet, wouldn't you?" Will asks, although not unkindly as he drags his cheek down Hannibal's stomach, enjoying the feel of the silk over Hannibal's skin. Will then lifts off his hands, coming to right himself and look down at Hannibal as he rests over his legs. Will's mouth is flushed and wet. He places a hand over the bulge in the panties. "Instead, you're hard and aching." Will gives Hannibal's cock an assuring squeeze.

"Three choices: I can finger you, suck you off, or fuck you. Which one does my desperate girl want?"

* * *

_'If you were really a girl, you'd be sopping wet, wouldn't you?'_

Hannibal is not expecting that. He stills slightly, dazed, shocked out of the crush of sensation by the vulgar words, but all he needs is a moment to realize that there is no scorn in Will's voice. If anything, he sounds almost approving, affectionate, his voice warm with something akin to approval as he nuzzles over the sensitized skin of Hannibal's stomach. The scratch of Will's stubble is rough and Hannibal's muscles jump under the sensation, but it is not an unpleasant one. His fingers curl in Will's hair, stroking and gripping as the need suits him. Will is quick to follow up his statement with an affirmation that he _knows_ that Hannibal is a man, and the touch to his cock is so good that he cannot help but lift his hips into it.

He has never wished or desired to think about himself as anything other than a man, and that doesn't change with Will's words. Yet as he focuses enough to think about what Will must be seeing - slightly damp lace, clear arousal, smooth skin, and thick desire - he must admit that Will is correct. Given how aroused he feels now, the comparison is not incorrect.

The squeeze to his cock has his pulse skipping and Hannibal reluctantly lets his arms fall back. His fingers instantly thread into the soft faux-fur under him, needing something tactile and firm.

Yet when Will asks him to choose, when Hannibal is given the options, there is hardly a moment's hesitation before he's hissing out, "I want you. Fuck me," he adds, the word feeling somewhat clumsy on his tongue, but he wants no uncertainty here. For while he is sore - while he knows his body will protest, while he _desperately_ wants Will's fingers again, as well as his mouth - the connection - the ability to return the pleasure given to him in a way that Will is going to allow - appeals to him far more. "I want to feel you like this."

* * *

Of course, Will _wants_ to fuck Hannibal, but he's also a little concerned about hurting Hannibal again. He'd done it poorly the first time. He'd been cruel and selfish, he'd sought to see if Hannibal would stick with it -- if his actions would push Hannibal away. If Hannibal chooses sex again, he'll have to take his time, to be careful. It feels like a responsibility. A great undertaking. And Will hopes he won't fuck it up this time.

Hannibal doesn't make him wait. Hannibal apparently doesn't need to think about it. He says it. Hannibal says ' _fuck me_ ' and Will feels a torrent of heat rip through him. Hannibal may feel that the word is clumsy on his tongue, but Will thinks it sounds sublime. It's perfection. Will is rapt, awestruck as he gazes down at Hannibal and the realization sinks in. Hannibal is giving him another opportunity to try, to feel him and experience _them_ again.

"Yeah, I'll fuck my sweet girl," Will murmurs as his hand comes to pull up the camisole, exposing Hannibal's stomach. He leans down to kiss around Hannibal's bellybutton, still entranced by the smooth, hairless skin Hannibal's body presents. Will feels a little daring as he kisses down, his tongue coming to drag along hip bones and then he goes a step further by nuzzling the side of his face against Hannibal's trapped cock.

"But these need to come off first, though," Will comments as he sits back up and climbs to the side in order to work the panties off with Hannibal's help as he lifts his hips up. Will lets his fingers drag down Hannibal's legs as he slides down the panties (that he notes _are_ damp). Will gives Hannibal's thigh a squeeze before he stands.

"Daddy's going to get ready for you now," Will says as his hands come to his slacks and he undoes the button. "Can't wait to feel you, baby." Will slowly drags down the zipper as Hannibal watches him. He doesn't attempt to be too sexy while undressing, but Will doesn't rush it either. He strips the items off, careless toward being nude in front of Hannibal. When he's naked, pants and boxers discarded on the floor, Will bends down to pick up the lube.

"Now, spread your legs for me like the desperate wife you are, Hannibal."

* * *

Will looks stricken by Hannibal's answer and that alone is enough to make him _know_ that he's made the right choice. Even as Will agrees and then leans down, lifting the camisole to kiss around Hannibal's navel, Hannibal can feel the halting reverence in each kiss. Perhaps Will does not feel the same way that he does, but he _is_ suddenly attempting to be painfully careful.

Hannibal closes his eyes and breathes, feeling each daring kiss, feeling the promise of closeness like a touch over his skin. He aches for this, for more, for _Will_ , and he doesn't realize how badly he _wants_ until Will's tongue touches his skin and then Hannibal feels the sudden prickle of stubble through the silk of the panties. The sensation - sudden touch, scratch, heat, and the knowledge of _what_ Will is doing - makes him choke on a sound akin to a cry. Hannibal arches and Will pulls off just in time, for Hannibal had felt the telltale tightening, the proof of how wound up he is.

He nods, dazed, as Will indicates that the panties must come off, and while his body shivers with sensation as he fights to come back down, Hannibal does as asked. He lifts his hips and lifts the silk away from his cock, watching it lay heavy and flushed and drooling against his abdomen, staining the end of the camisole with his precome. He breathes, and when Will stands to 'get ready', Hannibal nods dazedly and focuses on breathing, on winding himself down. It is akin to edging, this. He aches with a deeper hunger and his gaze is rapt as he watches Will undo his slacks, watches him strip down and reveal himself to Hannibal's rapacious gaze.

When Will is naked and comes to join him once more, Hannibal doesn't hesitate to do as asked. With a low sound - a breath that sounds more like a moan given how aroused he is - Hannibal leans back against the floor and spreads his legs as asked. Then, judging angles, he quickly nods for the pillow he'd clutched before.

"Hand... hand me the pillow, if you would," Hannibal requests. Once he has it, he lifts his hips and works the cushion under them. The end result is a better angle and when he spreads his legs and reaches down to touch his own thighs, both assisting and baring himself to Will, Hannibal looks desperate. That this is happening - that Will has not recoiled - is a miracle. Instead of harsh sneers and dismissal, his words are kind and encouraging, his voice low with arousal and care, and Hannibal feels wrecked with the sheer weight of the knowledge.

"Please touch me... _please_."

* * *

Hannibal is laid out before him, naked, save for the camisole hiked up. Legs spread invitingly, a pillow under his hips, Hannibal looks wrecked and wanton and Will hungers for the image not to change, for it to always stay the same. Because it's Hannibal vulnerable for him. Like this, Will now realizes that Hannibal has waxed _everywhere._ A pang of arousal hits Will and he does need to take a few steadying breaths before settling in between legs that have spread just for him.

He reaches for the lube, squeezing out an ample amount to coat his fingers with. "I'll touch you, baby, don't worry," Will says in a reassuring tone.

His finger still teases for a few seconds, skimming along the edge of Hannibal's hole before pressing back in. Will isn't rushed, nor is he slow. He pumps his finger in and occasionally curls it to feel Hannibal tremble. His other hand strokes along Hannibal's leg, still marveling at the smoothness and taking it in. As Hannibal is looser from the fingering before, it doesn't take Will long to add a second finger.

Will soothes Hannibal, his words encouraging and praising as Hannibal's body takes the intrusion of fingers. Steadily, Will feels Hannibal begin to relax - to _truly_ relax - and Will rewards him with the curl of his fingers, with gentle rubbing against his prostate that has Hannibal gasping and shuddering. When Hannibal is easily taking three fingers, Will's heart is thundering in his chest as anticipation soars.

This is going to be different. It's not going to be him _taking_ simply because Hannibal will allow it. He wants Hannibal to feel good -- to feel amazing. He eases his fingers out and goes for more lube, rubbing it on his cock that feels like it's been hard for hours now. Uncaring, Will wipes the excess lube off on his stomach. On his knees, he comes closer to Hannibal. One hand steadies his dick as he presses the tip against Hannibal's waiting hole.

This time, he doesn't just push in. He enjoys the feel of Hannibal's heat, rubbing his cock head against Hannibal's slick waiting hole. He feels almost choked by eagerness, by desire, but Will holds himself back. "You want it, Hannibal?" Will asks, eyes bright with hunger as he gazes down at Hannibal. "You want me inside of you?"

* * *

This is nothing like before. As Hannibal spreads his legs and feels Will tease his hole with one finger before sinking it into his body carefully, Hannibal feels almost blown away by the sheer difference between this and what he had experienced before. Before, Will had been callous, had been unkind, had delighted in pushing to see what Hannibal could take. He had curled his fingers only enough to prove he _knew_ about the prostate and had then sought to avoid it, as if pushing Hannibal to see where his limits truly were. While Hannibal doesn't regret what had happened - while he _had_ derived a masochistic enjoyment from it - this is truly night and day.

 _This_ is care. This is Will delicately sliding his finger in and curling it, rewarding immediately and slowly working Hannibal back up. This is Will taking his time to make _sure_ that Hannibal is ready before adding a second finger, and Hannibal's back arches, his breath stuttering sharply as Will's fingers both curl deep inside of him. He is stunned by this reality, by the care shown. Will doesn't rush, but he doesn't tease. He pushes, but carefully, countering each new movement with a curl of his fingers or a softly-spoken word of praise. The result is that Hannibal begins to relax, bit by bit, his worries finally fading. For as Will carefully works him open, there is true care in his gaze. Whatever the difference is - perhaps Hannibal actively _making_ himself vulnerable at Will's request, perhaps the dynamic they have decided upon - Hannibal realizes then that Will isn't about to suddenly leave, to cut this off short.

By the time Will has three fingers working in deep, Hannibal feels hot, the silk damp with his sweat and his cock drooling a small puddle of precome onto his abdomen. He feels almost decadent with pleasure, and when Will finally, slowly withdraws his fingers and coats his cock liberally with lube (another difference) Hannibal looks at him, dazed and _wanting_ , and shifts enough to spread his legs wider.

The heat of Will's cock feels like temptation as it presses against his slick skin. While the ache of Will's earlier foray into sex has not abated, it mingles with this so perfectly that Hannibal feels desperate. He feels Will rub the head of his cock against his hole, and Hannibal swallows, beginning to push back before he remembers that _Will_ is the one in control. Aware that Will's care might hinge on it, Hannibal wets his lips, his pupils blown and skin flushed, and he nods, aching at the sound of his name - the reminder that Will isn't imagining anyone else right now - on Will's lips.

" _Yes_ ," Hannibal manages, and his accent is so thick that it's practically a hiss. He lets his head fall back and breathes deep, all but panting his desire. "I want you, Daddy. I--" No. He doesn't _want_. "I _need_ you. Please, Will. _Please_."

* * *

When Hannibal begins to push back against his cock to get him inside, Will almost slips right then and there and shoves in.

He doesn't.

He bites his lip and continues the tantalizing tease, the smooth head of his dick pressing insistently at Hannibal's hole, desperate to sheath itself but also delighting in how visibly shaken Hannibal is. Hannibal's pleas are all Will needs to hear. He takes a breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly before advancing forward and nudging his cock inside.

It's a familiar tight heat, but it feels much better this time. Phenomenal, really. He sinks inside Hannibal's body inch by inch, careful of not being too aggressive, of not slamming right in.

His eyes are locked on Hannibal's as he bottoms out, delicious scorching heat enveloping his cock so perfectly. Will doesn't care about former reservations at this moment. He surges forward, his body coming to rest on Hannibal's as he grabs Hannibal's face and he kisses him.

Will kisses him like he's desperate, like a man that's been offered freedom after years of imprisonment. Will grinds in deep as his lips move and he tastes Hannibal in another intimate way. He's barely cognizant of the silk in between them. It's mostly skin-on-skin and it's all-encompassing at this moment. Will doesn't stop kissing, his mouth giving and taking and his hips only slightly rolling to feel Hannibal's body clench around him. He feels both drunk and clear, wrecked and reborn.

He never knew it could feel like this. Something revitalizing, something hungry and satiating. It's bliss and intimacy. It's more than mere physical sensation, more than just fucking. When he finally pulls away from the kiss, Will is gasping, lips slick with spit. He curses, groaning as he tucks his head in against Hannibal's neck and softly rocks into Hannibal's body.

* * *

Hannibal has no reservations as Will answers his pleas. There is no further need for words. In the low light of the fireplace, Will's skin warm and glinting with sweat, Hannibal meets his eyes and watches, awed and humbled, as Will leans over him.

There is pain, but it is such a secondary, inconsequential feeling that Hannibal sets it aside. The other sensations are so much _more_. The immediate heat of Will's cock, the slickness of his skin, the aching press and stretch and the feeling of intimate fullness all threaten to destroy the tentative grip that Hannibal has on his control. His lips remain parted in a seemingly-endless halting breath, nothing but shallow, slow, shuddering gasps escaping him as Will slowly sinks into him. Hannibal looks at him in this unguarded moment like he is everything, as he _is_. Will might never understand, might never notice or realize, but Hannibal would not give himself up - not just his body, but his desires, his artwork, his _freedom_ \- for just anyone.

Will meets his eyes when his hips come to rest flush against Hannibal's ass and the spark of overwhelming desire and intimacy threaten to ruin him. Hannibal is trembling softly when Will walks the razor's edge of indecision, full of sensation and need and desire for this man. So when something snaps, when Will suddenly surges down and grabs at Hannibal's face and _kisses_ him, Hannibal chokes out a muffled sound akin to a sob, and it's like the dam has broken.

He opens to the kiss instantly, his arms winding around Will. Nails dig into his skin, into the sweaty curls at his nape, and Hannibal holds on like he'll be swept away if he doesn't. He is not a passive participant in the kiss, returning Will's desperation, his need. His fingers are tight in Will's hair, gripping, holding, his lips and tongue and teeth seeking and demanding, yet never pushing so far as to wrest control from Will.

Every time he so much as comes close, Will's hips move, a slow, steady grind, and Hannibal almost chokes at the first slow, aching grind against his prostate. The sensation is full and deep and _good_ , and he tears a hand away from Will's skin as they kiss in order to reach down, wrapping the hand tightly around the base of his cock. He throbs and aches as he holds himself back, for this is not something he wants to end so quickly. He wants this to be on Will's command; Hannibal is not greedy for his own release. Not if it means this ends.

Instead, Hannibal clutches Will close, and when the kiss breaks and Will buries his face against Hannibal's shoulder, Hannibal only buries his fingers deeper into his hair. He winds his legs around Will's waist, the grip tight, a reminder that Hannibal has power stored away in his muscles. Yet he doesn't remove his hand even as aching moans fall from his lips, desperate and deep and breathless. This is not a moment he ever wishes to leave.

* * *

When he feels Hannibal's hand come between them, Will is momentarily confused. At first, he thinks maybe Hannibal is trying to jerk off, but when nothing comes of it Will then assumes that Hannibal is actually trying to stave off orgasm. It's an arousing realization. That Hannibal is this close and doesn't want to come yet... Hannibal's other hand is in his hair, pulling sharp and holding Will close. Will likes it.

There's something so suffocating about this moment. So heavy. Will doesn't know how to entirely comprehend it, but he lets it overtake him anyway. He wants to remember every feeling, every sensation. He wants to be able to effortlessly recall Hannibal's shudders, his gasps, the feel of legs wrapping around him and somehow pulling him in even _closer._

He can't get a great deal of momentum in his thrusts, but right now Will is simply savoring being this close to Hannibal, breathing him in, and the exquisite clench around his cock. Will grinds and rolls his hips, he feels and learns Hannibal from the inside. Fucking Hannibal, letting Hannibal cling to him, pleasuring Hannibal -- it feels like it just _makes_ _sense._ It's not complicated, it's not daunting, but Will has an inkling that later on it will likely change.

But that's for later. He basks in Hannibal's plentiful moans and Will adds to them. He kisses at Hannibal's shoulder before thrusting in harder. He's not going to last long. Will knows it's a lost cause. Will lifts his head so that he can press a messy kiss to Hannibal's cheek.

"I want my baby to come for me. Come for Daddy. Show me how good it feels," encourages Will as his hands grip into Hannibal's hair and pull a little as his hips snap in deep, his cock filling Hannibal perfectly.

* * *

Unlike the first time that Will had pressed in deep and _taken_ , there is very little momentum behind his thrusts. Yet instead of the sensation being unsatisfying, Hannibal feels breathless with how good it feels. There are no hard, jarring thrusts, but Will compensates by finding a deeper, grinding pace that rips the very breath from Hannibal's lungs. It's a slow grind, pressing Will in deep, letting Hannibal feel him from hip to chest. Will's abdomen brushes over the head of Hannibal's cock with each slow roll of his hips, and Hannibal's grip around his cock becomes a necessity as he clutches at Will's hair and keeps him achingly close.

They fall into a rhythm without needing to struggle to find one. It feels thrilling and _right_ , almost instinctual as Hannibal rolls his own hips up as a counterpoint to Will's careful thrusts. It's good and it's intense; Hannibal shudders deeply at every rolling thrust, for each one presses so perfectly into him, filling him, making him ache with the intimacy. He can feel Will's lips hot against his skin, his breath rolling over Hannibal's shoulder as they fall into this steadily-climbing bliss. Yes, Hannibal can still feel the ache from before. He can feel the stretch, the sting, but it has become something different, something _more_.

Will's name becomes a breathless mantra as Hannibal struggles to stave off orgasm, wishing to feel this, to experience it for as long as he can. Will takes, he pushes, but there is nothing selfish in him. Not now. For once, it is not Will, but the both of them. _For both of us_.

Hannibal feels wrecked and strained, his cock throbbing and pleasure seeming to weight down his whole body when Will finally lifts his head. Hannibal gazes at him in an awed sort of pleasure, his brow pinched, and the kiss to his cheek is perhaps even more damning to his control. Hannibal shivers, and when Will's thrusts manage to snap a little harder, there is no hiding the way he gasps sharply and tenses, fighting desperately for every ounce of control. He's so close that it hurts, and so when Will's voice breaks through the wall of control, when Will calls him _baby_ and tells him to come, to show him how good it feels, there is no way to hold back.

There is no shame as he cries out in his pleasure, his hand loosening its grip and stroking once, twice, and then Hannibal's legs lock tighter around Will's hips. Will snaps them forward, driving his cock in deep, and Hannibal comes so hard that he feels wrecked by it. Pleasure pulses like agony through him, and he spills hot and wet over his hand and the silk on his abdomen as he clutches Will in close, all but sobbing out his name in breathless need and pleasure. Everything else fades but Will - the fullness within, the heat of his body, the scent of his sweat and skin, the grip he has in Hannibal's hair - and Hannibal doesn't dare look away from Will even as pleasure rakes through him.

* * *

Hannibal doesn't hold back. Hannibal obeys -- like he has all night. Hannibal cries out. Will feels Hannibal's hand move quickly and then legs clench around him harder, pulling Will in deeper, and Hannibal comes.

Will _feels_ it. He feels the come shoot between them. He feels Hannibal shudder. He hears Hannibal repeat his name as if in exultation. Will isn't, in any way, prepared for the gravity of emotions that hit him. There is a resounding sense of _fulfillment_ at having Hannibal orgasm, at giving and allowing Hannibal pleasure. There is power, yes, for his permission and doing has brought this to fruition, but it's also rewarding and pleasing to be involved in Hannibal being vulnerable -- in Hannibal opening his legs again and allowing Will to fuck him.

Will doesn't last. His orgasm accelerates through him, feeling like a rush of perfect heated bliss as he fills Hannibal. And Hannibal doesn't look away as he comes inside, Will's mouth hanging open, panting as his body feels shaky and overheated. A few seconds later, Will's head drops as he all but collapses onto Hannibal. They're a mess of come and sweat, but right now it's exactly where Will wants to be.

Will breaths deep, his eyes closing as he rests his head on Hannibal's shoulder. The afterglow of his climax settles over him, contented and heavy like a blanket. "Good," Will says. "That's my good girl..."

He doesn't know what else to say or do.


	7. Struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Will knows he's the singular person who has wrecked Hannibal. It's his hands, his body, his voice, his affection that both build up and destroy Hannibal and Hannibal has resigned himself to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're zooming ahead to the end!

Hannibal's recollection of Will's departure is skewered both by the lingering bliss of mutual pleasure, and by the weight that settles upon him when Will inevitably leaves. All Hannibal recalls past the slow drag to clean himself up afterwards is that Will does not retreat the way he had before. It is awkward and uncertain, but Will doesn't run. He doesn't shuffle out instantly, doesn't snarl insults or snap coldly.

He goes as far as to help Hannibal up and then quietly tells him to go and get cleaned up for bed. Hannibal complies, for he can do nothing else, but even as he steps into the shower, soiled silk carefully hung up to be cleaned properly later, Hannibal wonders what tomorrow will bring. There is no precedence for this, for Will lingering even for a moment, for _care_. Hannibal washes quietly, his body aching but fully sated, and as he climbs into bed that evening, his only complaint is that Will is not there beside him, solid and warm and real.

The uncertainty strikes Hannibal the next morning when he wakes up. He doesn't shy away from what had happened, but it does beg the question as to how he is supposed to act _now_. He rises slowly, grimacing at the slightly deeper ache, but the grimace fades when Hannibal allows himself to reflect on what had happened. There is no shame in him even now, though feminization and power-plays have never quite appealed to him before. At least not given the role Will had chosen for him. Yet as he climbs to his feet and quietly considers the bag folded in the corner of the room, Hannibal hesitates only a moment before stepping towards it.

He does not don another outfit, for Will had not asked him to. He _does_ curiously slide on another pair of silken panties - red this time - and studies himself in the full-length mirror. The press of silk against his skin is enticing, but more than that, it serves as a tactile reminder of the evening before. While Hannibal doesn't slide them on to feel the arousal, he does feel a lick of it as he dresses in dark slacks and a white button-up shirt. He leaves the collar and cuffs undone, rolling the latter up, and while the clothing is still sensitive on his skin, he gathers himself up and then walks downstairs.

He cooks a simple breakfast, still sore but no longer requiring the cane. Hannibal makes coffee and takes the time to put together a crustless quiche, seasoned the way he knows Will likes best.

When Will joins him, Hannibal is expecting coldness. He braces himself for the worst, understandably, as he has received nothing but that in the past. Instead of cold detachment, however, Will looks at him and - while he _is_ distant as he comments on breakfast - there is no chill or anger to his tone. It takes Hannibal a moment to catch up. When he does, he brings Will his coffee, greets him in the way he has grown accustomed to, and they fall back into their pattern.

Or... close to it. While Will _is_ withdrawn, he is not cold. He doesn't meet Hannibal's eyes the way he had the night before, and there are no soft-spoken words or commands. Yet he is not clipped and angry. They speak, and Hannibal feels tolerant, but he cannot help the small twist of disappointment within. They had shared something quite deeply the night before and he still _aches_ for it, for the gentle touches and insight, for Will's fingers in his hair and his closeness and warmth. Instead he is given a step closer, and while it does burn to fall back so far, Hannibal takes what he's given.

Even so, as he's cleaning up after breakfast, as Will turns his attention to the tablet that Hannibal brings out for him, Hannibal's gaze does linger. He looks unabashedly at the sharp line of Will's jaw, at eyes that had burned with pleasure, at lips that had pressed so desperately to his own. He feels a low burn of arousal, feels the sensitivity of his skin, but he does nothing about it. It is mild and easy to ignore.

If only Will were the same.

* * *

Will doesn't know what to say or do now. They stay conjoined until his cock softens and slips out. It's easier to suggest that they clean up and go to bed. He helps Hannibal up and tries to not stare. It still amazes him that Hannibal is wearing woman's lingerie... That is now dirty with come. Will's cock is slick with come too. Most of the sweat has dried. The fire had dwindled. Will tends to it before gathering his clothing and heading upstairs.

He showers, but he feels like he's in a haze. The water is refreshing, but it doesn't wake Will up. He goes through the motions and washes himself anyway. Physically he feels better, but emotionally? Mentally? He has no clue. And when Will crawls into bed he falls into a somewhat restless sleep.

When morning comes, Will lays in bed a little longer than he normally would. He stares up at the familiar ceiling and wonders how they will be... He's tasted Hannibal's skin and mouth. He's grasped at Hannibal and Hannibal had matched his intensity, his desperation. The goddamn lingerie, the words Will had used and said... Will doesn't regret what transpired, he's just uncertain about _what now_?

So Will is a little quieter, a little detached with Hannibal but he's not mean, he's not playing. Hannibal seems to take the hint and they both fall into politeness, into complacency. It doesn't exactly feel good, but it is safe. Or safer.

They eat breakfast. It's peaceful. Stable.

Hannibal offering him his tablet is a welcome distraction and Will pokes around, eyes focused on reading, on anything that is undoubtedly easier to process than what to do _with_ Hannibal.

The day passes quietly and uneventfully. Will tries to keep his restlessness at bay and he throws himself into chores and tasks. Maybe he's a little over eager in collecting all the garbage and washing the windows, but whatever. This is domestic life.

It's on a whim when he's passing Hannibal in the hall that evening that Will reaches out. His right hand comes to Hannibal's waist, holding firmly as he gently urges Hannibal toward the wall, facing it. Will comes behind and presses in close. He settles his chin on Hannibal's shoulder.

"One day soon, I think I want to watch you kill," Will says quietly.

* * *

The day is uneventful and feels a little like a dream. Or perhaps last night had been the dream. While Hannibal wishes to reflect upon it, wishes to live in the curious actions of the evening before, _this_ is what has become normal. Even so, there has been a mark left behind. Perhaps Will is not as gentle with him as he'd been last night, but he's certainly not as cold as he has been these last few months. He doesn't stop Hannibal to challenge him, doesn't pause to mess up his clothing for no other reason than because he _can_. Instead Will is polite, and while he is not warm and caring, there is a consideration present that has been there very infrequently in the past.

If Will never returns to the aching sweetness and heat of the night before, Hannibal will mourn it, but the change it has apparently brought on is pleasant. He can live in it more comfortably. And as the day progresses, Hannibal works - cooking, cleaning up the kitchen and tending to chores around the house - while Will does the same, though his focus, as always, is on the exterior of the house. Hannibal finds himself walking on eggshells less, and a few times he honestly allows himself the simple pleasure of watching Will work.

He watches Will wash the windows in the late afternoon, quietly studying the way his shirt sticks to his skin, but as he watches, he cannot help but recall the night before. He knows what Will looks like damp with sweat from sheer bliss. Seeing him makes Hannibal ache, makes him wonder and hope fruitlessly, for he does not go to Will, and Will doesn't look at him. The only real proof that Hannibal has is the bruising upon his skin, the ache deep within, and the slide of his clothing over sensitive skin.

Hannibal isn't expecting anything after dinner, for he cooks it, cleans up, and they go their separate ways once more. After a full day of Will's casual (but polite) avoidance, Hannibal hardly glances at him as they pass each other in the hallway. His mind is set on thawing meat from _his_ freezer for tomorrow evening, and he's contemplating the best spices and rubs to tenderize the meat when suddenly Will's hand shoots out and takes hold of his waist.

Hannibal jumps, though it is subtle. It's proof that his mind had been elsewhere. Though when Will touches him and gently guides him back against the wall, Hannibal goes willingly, his pulse speeding up and both of his hands coming to press against the wall. He feels Will press in close behind him as he guides Hannibal to face the wall, and there is a definite shudder that slides through him when he registers Will's touch, his heat. Yet all that is overshadowed immediately by the soft words spoken to him.

Desire flares like fire as Hannibal swallows. His breathing catches, and it is perhaps the only overt sign that Will has affected him so much.

"You... need only tell me when," Hannibal manages, his voice thick. "I would gladly kill for you, Will."

* * *

Will has startled Hannibal, as Hannibal jumps a little. Will gets it. He hasn't outright touched Hannibal all day. Hannibal hadn't expected it _now_ of all times. But Will isn't rough with his touch. Hannibal gets the picture and goes willingly against the wall, Will not pinning him with force.

Undoubtedly, it's still a provocative position to be in. They've only just embarked on being sexual, but already Will _wants_ and now he knows how it can be.. _._ He'd been used to having affection and sex with Molly on a fairly regular basis. With Hannibal, Will's both ushered in and adjusted to their messed up dynamics. It's those dynamics that have only now become more convoluted. He doesn't know where to exactly go from here.

But he does know that when he hears a stilted breath come from Hannibal, that he likes it. He likes having an effect on Hannibal. Will is half-hard already and he presses his hips into Hannibal's ass so that Hannibal can feel the evidence of his arousal. Will hasn't often thought about Hannibal killing, but as they grow closer, Will can't help but be curious about witnessing different sides to Hannibal. Will wants to diversify, to experience more, to influence more.

Will's beginning to think that he wants _more_ than just withholding too. Maybe he doesn't want such a tight leash attached to Hannibal. Maybe he doesn't _need_ such a tight leash attached to Hannibal.

"The next one," Will states, turning his head and letting his mouth brush against Hannibal's neck in an almost kiss. "Did you want to pick, Hannibal, or are you going to kill who I chose?" Will asks after lifting his mouth away.

This close, he can smell Hannibal. Obvious male cologne, obvious aftershave. Still not bad, but he wonders about women's perfume again.

* * *

Killing has not been on the table. Not for him. Hannibal has tracked Will's prey, has incapacitated it, has dragged it back to their home, and he has cleaned up after Will has finished flexing his claws. He gives Will the only pick, and he quietly delights in watching Will's brutality, in watching his hands grasp, his fists clench, his arm descend with percussive blows. He watches Will's hands learn the knives that Hannibal brings to him, and it is so much different from teaching Will in practice.

However, despite Hannibal's involvement, he has not _killed_ since the Dragon. Not truly. That Will so calmly whispers his desire to see Hannibal flex _his_ claws, to clean the cobwebs from them and hone them like razors once more is a gift beyond measure.

Will crowds close and Hannibal groans tightly in the back of his throat. It is a clipped sound, one of halting desire, for he can feel the growing hardness in Will's pants, can feel the way Will is pressing up against him so close. Despite last night, despite Will's naked skin pressed flush against him, the reality of Will openly touching him is almost impossibly thrilling. It still ruins him after so long without touch, and he soaks up every point of contact like a sinner receiving absolution.

The slide of the silk he had chosen that morning presses against his skin as arousal slides down low. Hannibal feels no sexual arousal at the _thought_ of killing, but Will's desire to see him, Will pressed so _close?_ He shudders visibly, his forehead pressing against the wall as he breathes in the musty scent of old paint mixed with Will's own scent. The touch of Will's mouth against his skin has his breath hitching again. Perhaps before he would have held his reactions back, but now... is there any point? Will already knows how wrecked his mere presence makes him.

"Your choice," Hannibal breathes, and while his voice sounds level, it also sounds slightly weak. With desire, with the feeling of the metaphorical earth digging into his claws and the scent of would-be-blood on the air. "I have no interest in this without your involvement in some way. I have tasted the best," he adds, quietly, and Dolarhyde's death gurgles almost superimpose themselves on his mind. Will had been so achingly beautiful, and connected with _him_.

"I do not wish to settle for what I had before."

* * *

At one point in his life, Will would have been mortified to be actively killing, to be shacking up with a cannibal and a notorious serial killer. Technically Will is being a cannibal as well. It's something they don't really talk about, though. It's not always people they eat, after all. Will's palette is still not refined enough to know the difference, however. He can only tell when they are eating meat that _he's_ provided as Hannibal's eyes linger after he takes the first few bites. (Not quite as sensual as when Will had plopped the ortolan in his mouth and ate it, bones and all, but it's still something.)

One fundamental truth Will is certain of is that killing alone has not produced the same sort of high as killing the Dragon with Hannibal. But he's also certain nothing could ever compare. The situation had been utterly unique and it's not possible to duplicate anything remotely close to it. There is no going back to that. It's only in memories and fantasies that he can revisit that shared victory.

While Hannibal has been involved in the process, he's not been actively _taking_ a life. He watches Will and Will enjoys the attention, enjoys Hannibal's penetrating focus while he attacks and lashes out and gradually the life is extinguished. It's a heady thing to be watched and desired...7

Will remembers the feel of Hannibal naked. He also remembers the feel of Hannibal wrapped in thin silk. Like this - both of them dressed - it feels like there are far too many layers between them. Still, Will can feel Hannibal tremble, he can hear the quickened breathing.

And Will knows he's the singular person who has wrecked Hannibal. It's his hands, his body, his voice, his affection that both build up and destroy Hannibal and Hannibal has resigned himself to this.

Will is not surprised that Hannibal would like it to be his choice, that Hannibal would also want him involved.

"You're not the same man you used to be," Will comments. (It's the same for him though.) "A lone wolf. A solitary hunter."

Will pulls away. He pretends the sudden space between them isn't jarring.

"Not anymore. Not ever again, Hannibal."

A threat? A claim? Will doesn't know. His hand squeezes Hannibal's hip before he exhales slowly and leaves.

* * *

_Not ever again, Hannibal_.

The words linger in Hannibal's mind long after he goes to bed that evening, the lingering touch of Will's hands to his hips still tingling with sensation. The words are with him in the morning when he wakes, and all the way through breakfast. He watches Will quietly, uncertain, confused, and yet still more or less content. For while the touching had gone nowhere the night before in the hallway, Will had given him much to think about. He truly isn't the man he once was. He isn't certain he _wants_ to be, however. Not after Will. How could he possibly go back to being the way he was before after experiencing so much with this man?

Hannibal observes him over breakfast, quietly searching out any hint of the way Will had gently pressed him to the wall the evening before. He can feel the phantom touch of Will's hands on his skin and even over a day later, his nipples still feel slightly raw from the attention. Yet despite the physical evidence that Will had desired him, had pushed, he had not done so the night before. Hannibal had felt the hardness against him, and had Will told him to, he would have dropped to his knees then and there. Instead Will had pulled away, and as Hannibal looks at him now, quietly observing the distance between them, he wonders if it's him.

Will is still not cold to him. He _is_ distant, however, and when Hannibal begins to suggest Will helping him prepare dinner, Will declines and cites a desire to go for a drive instead. While Hannibal inwardly protests, he allows it.

Will leaves for hours, and Hannibal quietly prepares dinner on his own. When Will returns late that evening, he does look slightly more refreshed, though his distance and distraction has not ebbed. Hannibal swears that he can feel Will's gaze on him that night as they eat dinner (and Hannibal watches Will eat with clear satisfaction in his eyes) but whenever he turns to look, Will glances away. It is as disheartening as it is maddening but Hannibal doesn't push. Instead he wonders.

He is not stopped in the hallway that evening, though Hannibal does feel Will watching him by times. He wonders _why_ at first, followed immediately by an ache for Will to touch him again, to _see_ him. Perhaps it's his clothing, the reminder that he is a _man_ and not a woman. Had Will not smelled him the night before? Had he not set his hands where Hannibal's hips would have been wider and curved had he been a woman? As Hannibal thinks on this, he showers and then climbs into bed, aching for answers and for clarity. Yet even as he closes his eyes that evening, he realizes that there is _something_ he can do. A test, at very least.

Hannibal thinks of it that way as he dresses the following morning. He studies himself closely in the mirror as he rifles through the bags from a few days ago, and while this _is_ a risk - for Will had not _asked_ him to do this - Hannibal needs to know.

The chemise he slides on is sheer and strapless but for a thin thread of satin that slides around his throat. The back hangs open, tied artfully to drape along his back just so. The lingerie is slightly more complicated and much more daring than the last had been. It is white, like the chemise, thin and sheer with artful curves of thicker satin that form the outline, already feeling somewhat tight and he isn't even hard. Finally, perhaps to offset how truly bold this is, Hannibal takes a long, flowing lace kimono robe that cinches at the waist and slides that on over top.

It does help obscure the lingerie beneath, and it covers his body with delicate, artful patterns of lace that scratch over his skin and remind him of what he is doing. However, even as Hannibal descends the stairs and walks to make breakfast, his pulse is quick in his throat. He makes Will's coffee, as he always does, but instead of beginning on something that needs to be monitored - such as eggs - Hannibal elects instead to wash and begin to prepare fruit from the fridge. Cherries, strawberries, grapes - sweet and easy to eat. Easy to leave on the counter, for if this is successful, he doesn't wish food to burn.

Even as he washes his hands and gets to work, Hannibal is not quite certain how he wishes this morning to go.

* * *

It's harder to leave than Will would like to admit. He knows they need to talk. To actually hold a conversation about a great deal of many things. The problem is, that hasn't been the norm for them -- at least not in their new life here, _together._ Before, when Hannibal had been his therapist, there had been numerous conversations between the two of them. Of course, much of their conversation had been obscure in nature and less directly about them and their friendship. This is now a relationship.

There has been little talked about as of late. Instead, there are actions and reactions. Will acts and Hannibal adapts accordingly. They communicate through trial and error, but it's been Will leading and doing. He allows Hannibal to take care of the legal and financial matters. It's Hannibal's money, after all. Life on the run, assuming new identities, these are Hannibal's areas of expertise.

When Will goes to bed that night, it takes him longer than he would like to fall asleep. He thinks about the feel of Hannibal clothed and up against the wall. _Willing_. Drinking up his touch and attention. The idea of watching Hannibal kill someone that he has selected is arousing as well. It's not the killing aspect -- it's never been killing that has turned Will on. It's Hannibal _watching_ him.

And now Will could watch Hannibal. Role reversal.

When he sleeps, he dreams of a worthy foe for Hannibal to take down. He doesn't want Hannibal hurt or injured, but for Hannibal to be able to be ferocious once more -- once again. Blood stained lips, bloody teeth...

The following day, he feels more antsy, like they're reaching their boiling point. Will doesn't know if he's ready to deal with it all yet. So he's a little more distant, but not cold, not outright mean. He turns down the offer to help cook. He goes for a drive instead.

Will doesn't go into the city. He drives along country roads, taking in the scenery. It calms him down to drive. It's not uncommon for him to do this. Whenever he's feeling a bit uptight, he'll go for a drive. The constant motion is relaxing, being in control of something mechanical is soothing. The car is going to need to get washed, but Will doesn't care.

Dinner that night is a quieter affair. But Will knows what kind of _meat_ they're eating -- long pig. Hannibal's eyes watch him. Will feels Hannibal's satisfaction slide over his senses. It's settling in a way. It's something familiar, but it doesn't fix what needs to be fixed -- if there is even a fix. He doesn't incite this evening. He goes to bed and has no dreams or nightmares.

When morning comes, Will showers slowly. Feels good to be clean, but the morning heralds a new day and with a new day, it gives Will possibilities. Choices that he will make or not make. Will pulls on a clean white undershirt and grey silk boxers. He decides to forgo lounge pants or real clothes for now. Will heads down, not expecting anything out of the ordinary.

What he's greeted to is something _definitely_ out of the ordinary. Will halts in the arched doorway into the kitchen. Hannibal is facing the counter, cutting up what looks and smells to be fruit. That's not the problem, however.

Hannibal is in women's lingerie again. A lacy thigh-long robe is on, the sleeves longer and reminding him of a kimono. Underneath the robe is the real issue. Hannibal is wearing white lingerie. The panties are a sheer material, with a thicker white trim that leads to a dainty bow at the beginning of Hannibal's cleft. Whatever top Hannibal is wearing, Will can see that it's only tied along his mid-back. Arousal mixes with surprise and Will feels himself grow aroused.

Yes, Hannibal has done this without his permission. Hannibal is testing him. Testing them. He could be angry.

But Will doesn't care right now. It's Hannibal reaching out and giving him a grand gesture. It's Hannibal being a good wife and preparing them breakfast dressed up, skin still smooth and waiting.

"Fuck," Will hisses as he walks over to Hannibal, pressing up against Hannibal and blatantly pinning him to the counter.

He sees a bowl of cut up strawberries and he reaches around, plucking a piece up, holding it between his thumb and index finger. He raises it to Hannibal's mouth. He expects Hannibal to comply. As much as he wants to rub the strawberry against Hannibal's lips, he doesn't.

* * *

The sounds of Will waking upstairs is close to torture, though perhaps that might be slightly melodramatic. Hannibal can hear him moving about upstairs, can hear his indulgence in the form of a long, warm shower. The distant scent of warm, mildly-scented soap only just reaches the kitchen as Hannibal works. In truth, he likely cuts the strawberries a little smaller than is strictly necessary, but Hannibal is no stranger to nerves.

He is normally above them, but right now, he feels them acutely. For this truly is a risk. He has not dared to be so bold before, not since his clear, unflinching demands for Will to follow his medical instructions to the letter following his injury. Not since taking it into his own hands when Will had failed to do so.

It has been Will's choice in most every moment since. This, while still aiming to prompt Will _into_ choosing, is Hannibal's choice. This is him daring to take a blatant step over their quietly-assumed line. This _could_ go very badly.

Will could shut down, could refuse him. Or Will could see the lingerie and be receptive. At present, given what Will's response to the lingerie would mean, Hannibal is unsure which he wants to happen.

He forces himself to focus on breakfast, on toast with almond butter he'd made by hand a few days ago, and the fruit under his knife. Hannibal throws himself into it until he hears the sound of Will's footsteps on the stairs, and only then does Hannibal finally admit to himself just how quickly his pulse is beating, how odd his lungs feel in his chest. He breathes deeply and slowly, calming himself. And when he hears Will come to a sudden, abrupt stop in the doorway, Hannibal aches with the desire to turn around, to see Will's response.

He doesn't.

Will is silent for long enough that Hannibal begins to wonder. Then, _finally_ , there is a soft, breathless curse, and a pleased, relieved shock dances over Hannibal's skin. He hears quiet footsteps (Will is getting better at adjusting his weight upon the floor) and then suddenly Will presses up against him, from chest all the way down to his thighs. Hannibal tenses in surprise, in sensation, and then quietly sets the knife down on the counter before he drops it by mistake.

He can feel Will's warmth along his back like the comforting warmth of a fire in the hearth. Given that it's the first time that Will has touched him in over a day, Hannibal is not quite prepared for what is still truly an alien sensation. Still, Hannibal notes the heat, the warmth, Will's skin still damp from the shower, his hair dripping occasionally onto Hannibal's shoulder. He smells clean and warm, but it is the heat and press of sensation against his ass that truly tells Hannibal what he needs to know.

Will likes it. He _likes_ the lingerie. Perhaps it is simple. Perhaps Will simply has a sexual kink towards women's lingerie. Or perhaps this runs deeper than that.

Regardless, when Hannibal feels the cool press of the cut-up strawberry against his lips, he finally allows himself to relax, letting Will pin him there. He has no reason to protest; the feeling of Will's body against his is what he _wants_. If Will wishes to pin him against the counter, Hannibal won't argue. Instead he breathes his relief out with a release of tension and then, quite clearly, he parts his lips.

The fruit is rich and ripe and sweet, the juices already attempting to drip, but Hannibal catches them before they can. He hums a low sound, be it pleasure, relief, or satisfaction, and he does not spare Will's fingers a gentle scrape of teeth as he takes the fruit from them. Nor does he shy away from a press of his lips over them. He sighs, chewing slowly, letting the flavor calm and reassure, and only once he has swallowed does he quietly reach for an answering piece of strawberry. He carefully lifts it and holds it just over his shoulder, half-glancing back at Will as he does so. Hannibal almost never eats without utensils. That he is now is just more proof of Will's influence.

"Good morning, Will."

* * *

They've never done anything remotely physical in the kitchen. Will is fairly sure Hannibal would prefer them to _not_ do anything crazy either. Will isn't necessarily thinking of doing the deed here anyway. He's already a little irritated at himself, at how quickly he's gone and inserted himself into Hannibal's space. Like a fucking magnet, he'd been drawn over to Hannibal, unable to resist. The need to touch and be close pounding in him.

It's not that he has some overwhelming love for women's lingerie. Before Hannibal, he'd had what he believed to be a normal affinity for it. Sexy lingerie was nice, but he understood how it was likely impractical to wear on a daily basis. And, he'd never been interested in _men_ wearing it.

That is, until Hannibal. Hannibal - strong, masculine, refined, _proud_ \- doing something that he wouldn't have done for another. This is specifically _for_ him. He doubts Hannibal would have even thought about it let alone done it.

Hannibal may tense as he comes up and presses close, but Will knows it's from surprise and nothing else. The knife is placed down (probably for the best). When the strawberry is brought up, Will feels Hannibal give a sigh of relief, relaxing some and then lips part for the chunk of strawberry. Will pushes the piece of fruit inside a waiting mouth. Teeth graze gently along his fingers and Will shudders, licking his lips as he pulls them away and Hannibal chews and swallows.

Then Hannibal picks a piece of strawberry up and apparently it's Will's turn as Hannibal raises it above his shoulder and glances back. Well, it's only fair...

Will leans forward and opens his mouth, taking the piece in and also letting his teeth scrape along Hannibal's fingers, returning the favor as it were. Will knows Hannibal likes manners, he likes using utensils. Whenever they've eaten fruit in the past, Hannibal had used a fork. This is for _him_. Will knows it. Will knows Hannibal knows it too.

Maybe Hannibal simply believes him to be a deviant, to be getting off and interested in the lingerie and feminization, but Will knows it's not that simple. Does he want to try and explain it though? Not right now.

"Mornin'," Will murmurs back, leaning in to brush soft kisses along Hannibal's nape and what little of his shoulder isn't covered. When his mouth pulls away, Will can't help but ask, "May I take off the robe to see it? To see _you?"_

* * *

The scrape of Will's teeth is like sealing the deal between them. There is an unspoken rule that has just been solidified, a quiet confirmation that Hannibal locks away. It _is_ the lingerie, in some way. He feels the press of Will's heat all along his back, feels the proof of his arousal, and he _knows_ that this has changed something between them. For while Will had walked over to press along him from behind, he had done the same in the hallway the night before last when Hannibal had been dressed normally, when Will had whispered promises in against Hannibal's skin, a desire to see him uncollared and unmuzzled.

But _this_... feeling the scrape of Will's teeth blatant over his fingers, feeling the way Will leans in and brushes a soft kiss over his nape and shoulder... this is different.

There is care in Will's touch, like the lingerie is a visceral reminder that despite his power and ferocity, Hannibal can still be vulnerable. Instead of tightly-woven suits cut to shape the broadness of his shoulders and the power in his posture, the lace is delicate and white, clinging faintly to his skin. Flexible and flowing instead of stiff and rigid. Perhaps it makes sense, then, why Will does not hesitate to approach him like this. Why he strides with purpose, clad in what feels like nothing more than his sleep clothes but stands with a posture tall with care and protection. It is the dichotomy that draws him in, and perhaps it is the vulnerability of the risk that Hannibal had taken to dress this way.

They both know that Will has reacted poorly to choices made in the past.

Hannibal could spend weeks mulling over the exact psychology behind this moment, but beyond his epiphany regarding the vulnerability of his current outfit, he has no desire to look further into it. Instead he shivers, quietly basking in the thrill of having Will pressed up so blatantly against him. Hannibal closes his eyes to focus all of his attention on Will's touch, his kisses, his heat. The relief he feels is so strong that it feels decimating.

So there is no question as to whether or not Hannibal will allow Will his request. He opens his eyes and draws in a slow, deeper breath before letting it out. Then he nods, moving one of his hands down to press against the back of one of Will's. It is a fleeting touch, but one he surely wouldn't have been allowed to get away with before. Not dressed like he normally is. But like this, now, Will seems far more interested in the lingerie. Hannibal doesn't blame him.

"Yes, you may," he says, and calmly takes Will's hand and then guides it down to the tie of fabric at his waist, holding the lace kimono on. It would not do to deny Will the right to unwrap his gift, after all. "You may do as you wish."

* * *

The answer will be yes. Will knows it. He understands the psychology of adding the robe. It may be somewhat see-through, but it still allows Hannibal some safety, some protection in the form of another layer. If this had gone poorly, Hannibal would have simply gathered himself up and left. It's far more exposing to be _only_ clad in the skimpy and revealing lingerie. Will honestly can't imagine that he would ever have the balls to wear it, but if Hannibal could... perhaps he can?

Maybe he'd like it, too. Maybe he _is_ a pervert. (The thought kind of appeals, both of them pushing boundaries, both in appealing lingerie. He wonders how it would feel against his skin. Would Hannibal like it? He knows Hannibal doesn't require it, but Hannibal doesn't require much...)

He's been aroused by Hannibal -- Hannibal naked and Hannibal clothed in normal wear. It's not the lingerie. The lingerie is an addition, perhaps a distraction. The feminization helps, it's easier to be gentle when Hannibal is so unlike himself... Has Will ever cared for a man this deeply and expressed it? No. There are a number of things they need to talk about. Will is certain that this isn't healthy. He treats Hannibal distantly but then is warm when there is tantalizing lingerie present. He's caring when referring to Hannibal as a girl ( _his_ girl, too). But how does he reconcile these two behaviors now, how does he balance them?

They are weaving a tangled sticky web, but it feels better to be doing something, to be trying to find points of connection than to be at a standstill. For months he's been the ringleader and they've been stagnant. Safe, but stagnant. This is something else entirely. It feels volatile but necessary. Perhaps all these pieces of them will one day fit together, but for right now it feels like their relationship is fragmented and those fragments are in flux.

His hand is touched. Permission is given. His hand is then moved to the tie in the front.

"Was this a test Hannibal?" Will asks, but it's a rhetorical question.

He tugs on the sash, undoing the loose bow that's been tied. The light robe parts. Will doesn't rush. He doesn't tear it off nor does he spin Hannibal around. His hands come to Hannibal's shoulders and he squeezes lightly. Broad shoulders. Masculine shoulders.

Will's fingers curve underneath the neck of the robe, he then eases the garment down off of Hannibal's shoulders. Will is careful with the delicate piece, he doesn't let it fall to the floor. He gathers it up and then drapes it over the back of a chair. The panties' construction doesn't leave much to the imagination. Will can see Hannibal's smooth asscheeks underneath it. The bow is both dainty and appealing. He comes up behind Hannibal, leaving some room between them but resting his hands on Hannibal's waist.

Slowly, he turns Hannibal around and Hannibal goes willingly. There is only a border of few inches of lace at the top, the rest of the white material is practically translucent over Hannibal's chest and stomach. It would have looked amazing on a woman, showing off the breasts and nipples... but on Hannibal is still doesn't look bad. The top has a string holding it up around the back of Hannibal's neck and it comes a little past the panties. As the panties are sheer, Will is once again reminded that Hannibal has been waxed and shaved _everywhere._

Will's hands twitch at his sides, eager to touch. His boxers are tented. "You look stunning, Hannibal," Will says quietly.

* * *

Will already knows the answer to the rhetorical question asked between them, so Hannibal does not immediately answer. There is no rush, for there is no question. Will knows as well as he does that this had been a test, albeit perhaps not in the way that Will might initially assume. It is neither here nor there to think about, however.

For instead of answering, Hannibal merely looks back at Will. He cannot see him well in his peripheral vision, but that he is there - standing strong, attentive, and warm - is enough for Hannibal. He basks in the attention, in the knowledge that while Hannibal might require this particular addition to his wardrobe to gain Will's favor for now, Will is still here, still _touching_ him. Hannibal feels wrecked by nothing more than the slow slide of Will's hands.

His skin feels sensitized beyond the simple act of having waxed a few days ago. As Will steps in and reaches around to delicately undo the sash that ties the lace at Hannibal's waist, Hannibal feels the shiver of sensitivity that runs up his spine so acutely that he aches to press back into it. This had been a damning risk and yet here they are, together, Will's hands reaching and Hannibal willing. He cannot recall a time when he had not been willing, not for many, _many_ years.

A part of him expects Will to merely pull the lace kimono off, expects him to discard it upon the floor in order to gaze upon what he wants to see: an aching expression of vulnerability. Yet instead of being impulsive, Hannibal feels Will's fingers slide up to his shoulders, and from there, Will's slow motions are a clear, blatant seduction. Hannibal shudders as the lace slides down his arms, guided slowly by Will's hands. He swears that he can feel the rake of Will's gaze like a physical touch against his skin, following in the wake of the lace. When it finally slides from his hands, Will takes it and Hannibal hears the whisper of lace over what is likely a chair.

Then it's just him standing there, bared for Will, the lingerie so light against his skin that Hannibal can hardly feel it. Though when Will's hands settle on his waist and then gently beckon him to turn, Hannibal abandons the fruit before him, takes a slow breath, and then turns around. He is not hasty with it, allowing the outfit to speak for itself. And given the look on Will's face when Hannibal finally sees him, the outfit is doing its job.

Will's gaze is like a physical touch, a whisper of sweet sin against his skin. Hannibal makes himself breathe slowly as he studies him in return, wary but confident in his own appearance, if nothing else. He glances down at the crux of Will's legs last and is achingly relieved to see his boxers not only full but obviously tented. The lingerie is definitely appealing to him, then.

Perhaps it is the sight of it, perhaps it is the vulnerability. Either way Hannibal is soothed. He at least has his answers now, and as Will's voice sounds between them, Hannibal feels arousal gather low, the band of the panties pulling away from his skin ever so slightly. It is somehow both tasteful and lewd at the same time.

"I had hoped to, for you," he says quietly, finally daring to look up at Will's eyes, noting the hunger and something else complicated behind his eyes. He swallows and then reaches over, tentatively touching one of Will's hands in order to bring it in closer, settling Will's hand warmly on his waist.

"If you wish to touch, you need only do so, Will. I would welcome it."

* * *

_For him..._ Hannibal's voice is equally quiet when he answers. Right now, the hypocrisy of his actions feels like it might crush Will. It's cliffside rubble just waiting to break free of the netting attempting to keep it from falling onto the road. It's inevitable. It's monumental. It's bigger than he would like. He almost feels unworthy of reaching out and touching Hannibal.

So he doesn't. Will's hands remain by his sides even though he _knows_ Hannibal aches for his touch. Just like he knows Hannibal won't bring up his hypocrisy. Hannibal hasn't brought anything up, really. Hannibal has allowed most of the power to slide over to him and fall into his lap. Even so, it's Will who has stretched that power imbalance to unsustainable measures.

He'd thought Hannibal would break. He'd assumed Hannibal would eventually snap and put an end to his appalling behavior.

But maybe this is Will's breaking point.

It's like Hannibal is a gift for him. Hannibal has wrapped himself up in this alluring and sultry white ensemble. One layer is removed -- the shorter kimono robe. Hannibal had gone this far for him... Purchased women's lingerie, stripped off his clothing, exposed his scars, and let himself be shaved and waxed. This had started as a challenge, on a whim, and now it's morphed into a figure Will isn't entirely sure of.

Will is aware that he's not the only one aroused. With the lingerie being see-through, it truly doesn't hide much. Will can see Hannibal's cock beginning to harden.

Hannibal is the one to reach out -- to touch. Will's hand is moved to Hannibal's waist. Even with the skimpy layers, Will can feel the warmth of Hannibal's skin underneath. Will squeezes once, as if to verify Hannibal is real and here. He wonders if Hannibal will see the action for what it's worth. Will is suddenly struck with the feeling of being unable to fully comprehend and deal with this situation -- with Hannibal. He steps in close and he buries his head against Hannibal's neck, taking comfort in the familiar scent.

"Where are your teeth, Hannibal?" Will asks. It's not a challenge. It's an honest question. His tone isn't unkind, but inquiring. "Have I ripped them out? You're to be left gumming at me? Licking at me desperately?"

* * *

In Hannibal's uncertainty - in his quiet, desperate bid for understanding, for clarity - he had not spared a thought towards Will's state of mind. As far as he knows, it has not changed over the past few months of their cohabitation. Will has not bent, has not so much as leaned in one direction that he has not strongly strode towards with purpose. Will Graham has been the picture of bitter control, lording it over Hannibal like a God demanding sacrifice. He has withheld his touch, has withheld his heart, his mind, his presence, treating his touch like currency and his kindness like the metaphorical Holy Grail.

Hannibal had assumed that little had changed, but as he guides Will's hand to his waist and feels the slow squeeze of Will's hand, something forces its way through the confusing, desperate cacophony of his mind. The squeeze of Will's hand is not tight and possessive, but almost laughably weak and uncertain. It is like a sudden cold rain upon Hannibal's skin, chasing some of the shade of submission from his mind and awakening the part of him that had once so often reared its head around Will.

He stands, thrown, uncertain, and before he can inquire as to Will's state of mind, suddenly Will is stepping in closer. Hannibal remains still as Will presses in against him from chest to thigh. He lets out a shuddering breath of awed surprise as the scratch of Will's stubble scrapes over his neck. Like this, with Will standing so close and behaving so oddly, Hannibal realizes that he had been foolish to assume that such a monumental shift in their relationship would not have lasting consequences. Will had been kind, had been almost loving, gentle, and while he had not fled afterwards, he _had_ withdrawn.

Will's foundation has cracked, Hannibal realizes. It is an uncomfortable thought, particularly as suddenly this is akin to watching a wounded, feral animal limping in front of him. To help could kill him. To withdraw could kill Will. Hannibal has no recent precedence for Will showing such immediate weakness, and Hannibal finds himself wondering unkindly if this is a trap. So soon after his relief that Will is once again _touching him_ , this feels like a blow to his own foundation. How laughable they both are.

"Would you not withdraw from my teeth?" He asks quietly, and his voice feels almost rusty in his throat. While they converse, while he does push, he has not had a _conversation_ with Will in what feels like an eternity. Will's words rankle, but Hannibal _is_ desperate. He can no more deny that than he can deny his desire to soothe the weight from Will's shoulders.

"You have withdrawn at every turn save those in which your control is absolute. If this is how I must have you, I will do it. But no, Will. You have not ripped my teeth out. You have merely insisted I not use them." Hannibal pauses, swallows, then wets his lips. He's curious. "...Unless - in this moment - that has changed."

* * *

Like this, Will is reeking of submission and neediness. Of vulnerability. He had nearly curled into Hannibal after slaying Dolarhyde. Hannibal had helped him up, clutched him close. Hannibal had also helped him when the Dragon had turned his focus on him. Will hadn't initially helped Hannibal, though. After the shot had rang out, the glass shattering, the bottle shattering... Will hadn't even flinched. He'd been an impartial god sipping on his wine as Dolaryhyde detailed _changing_ Hannibal.

Like this, Will knows he's suffering from whiplash. He'd been calm and angry. Bitter and contained. He'd been in control, Hannibal bending to his whims. He'd played his part, he'd taken on the role like a dedicated method actor. Will had, incorrectly, believed it to be him. To be genuine. And a shade of this dark coolness _is_ him, but it's not bled and stained him entirely. Surely it hasn't...

Because Will has also been loving and caring. Perhaps under the guise of feminization and employed through dirty talk... But he'd been reverent and worshipful, almost. He'd been hungry and unselfish. He'd been interested and invested in treating Hannibal well, in Hannibal's pleasure...

But how does he reconcile these two parts of him? How does he go forward? These two pieces don't fit, one jagged and one deceptively smooth. Where is the truth? Is his design always to be a pendulum swinging back and forth, from serenity to chaos?

Hannibal posing a question to think on makes Will's eyes burn, makes his throat constrict. Already the words are more like _before._ Hannibal is honest with him. He's not delicate. And although it may be difficult to hear, it's what Will wants to hear. In the brief pause, Hannibal's words echo in his mind -- ' _if this is how I must have you, I will do it.'_

When Hannibal speaks again, Will knows the phrasing is intentional. _In_ _this_ _moment_. Will hasn't been very resolute as of late. There is no guarantee that anything is going to last. Right now, the only thing that feels permanent is his indecision and struggle and he's fucking tired of it.

"Touch me, do shit to me," Will grits out, the hand on Hannibal's waist pushing slightly. His pulse has jumped alarmingly. Even amidst the emotional upheaval, Will's still aroused. "'Red' is stop. I got it. Please..."

This is the first time Will has ever said please and truly meant it as a plea.

* * *

Hannibal cannot be faulted for his hesitation. While he can fault himself for a few choices in the past few months - for pushing, for slipping, for letting his desire take hold and spooking Will back into hiding - he cannot fault himself this. This is equivalent to stepping upon a frozen lake and trusting that the ice will support his weight. He does not know the single event that has prompted such a reaction from Will, but at the same time, Hannibal does not withdraw. While this is not what he'd been expecting, is this not typical of Will Graham? When has Hannibal ever been able to predict him?

He is tentative as he lifts his own hand to the small of Will's back, splaying his palm lightly over the fabric of his undershirt at first and then harder, as close to soothing as he dares allow himself until he understands what this is. Instead of wrenching back and dismissing him, instead of shakily demanding Hannibal kneel, or touching him with care and affection and calling him _good girl_ , Hannibal is surprised once more when he realizes that he can scent salt upon the air. He doesn't draw back to stare for he is not tactless, but the knowledge that Will's emotions have boiled over to this point is both humbling and startling.

It sparks a whisper of his old life, drags the predator within to the surface, and yet Hannibal doesn't lunge, doesn't bite. He doesn't take advantage of the show of weakness. Instead he stands there, still sensitive, still aroused, still _delighting_ in Will's touch, but not daring to move until he understands how he is to proceed. If allowing Will to have him so sweetly had been a risk, this is deadly.

Then Will speaks, and Hannibal's heart lurches in a beautiful mix of desire and sympathy. Will's voice is weak, his small shove a fraction of what it should be. His initial plan is to be gentle, but when Will grits out the safe word, Hannibal understands.

Will doesn't need gentleness. He needs to submit, to crawl along the floor on his hands and knees so that he can feel out the fractures in his foundation himself. Yes, Hannibal worries about Will's penchant for emotional self-flagellation, but given Will's desperate tone, how could Hannibal resist?

There is silence for a tense moment. Then, with no acknowledgement, Hannibal lifts his free hand and fists his fingers into Will's hair. He curls them tight and yanks Will's head back, away from Hannibal's neck, and in the same fluid motion, he turns, spinning them around, and presses Will back against the counter, hard. One of Will's elbows knocks the knife to the floor and Hannibal guides them away from it. He wastes no time in leaning in, in bringing his mouth to the expanse of Will's throat, in scraping his teeth over it as he firmly holds Will's head back, baring his throat to Hannibal's teeth.

His own pulse races, for a part of him is certain that Will is going to recoil. If _this_ is what he needs, though? Hannibal will do it.

"Is this to be sexual, Will?" Hannibal asks hotly against Will's throat, one of his smooth thighs slotting between Will's legs, feeling the aching press of Will's cock through his boxers. "Or do you simply need an escape? To be grounded?"

* * *

Of course, Will's said please to Hannibal before. With a forked tongue, Will had hissed it out when Hannibal had been locked up, strapped in a straight jacket but still looking every bit of a fierce predator. He'd essentially asked to use Hannibal as bait to lure the Dragon out and Hannibal had, naturally, agreed.

Will has used please to feign politeness while out in the city with Hannibal. He's also used it, but more cooly, while at home with him. This most recent usage is on a different plane. It's akin to begging. A plea.

Hannibal could reject him. With Will jerking Hannibal's leash as he has, it's not like he deserves to be catered to like this. Guilt and self-loathing are acidic, stomach bile eating him up. Mentioning the run of the mill safeword he'd given Hannibal mere days ago, Will is wanting something rough. His mind hasn't caught up to him yet. He doesn't know what he wants or needs, he just knows that he doesn't want to be in control. He doesn't want the responsibility, the weight on his shoulders.

This yoke has grown heavy and burdensome, he wants to pass it to Hannibal. At least for a moment. _In this moment._

There is no warning or reply given, but Hannibal's hand swiftly comes to his hair and fingers curl in and jerk his head back. Before Will can process and do anything other than gasp, Hannibal is spinning him around and crowding him into the counter.

Will had pinned Hannibal there moments ago. Ironic. But this time, they're face to face.

The paring knife clatters to the floor and Hannibal expertly guides them away from it. Teeth skim over his neck. It's a little uncomfortable to have his head tilted back as it is, but it's also strangely hot. He's not afraid of Hannibal. Hannibal is stronger. Hannibal could probably break his neck, could choke him. Could fucking rip out his throat for that matter. Will has seen him do it before. Will trembles as Hannibal's thigh comes between his legs.

Will tries to grind against it. It's pretty much an answer in and of itself but he knows Hannibal will need words too.

"P-please," is what comes out. It's not what Will wants to be saying. Not again. Will's own hands reach out and grasp onto hairless biceps. He holds. He doesn't push or pull. "Sexual. Anything. I don't know," Will grits out. "Whatever you want."

* * *

Will's skin is warm under Hannibal's lips. Past the pounding of his own pulse, the quiet, aching fear that Will is going to come to his senses and shove him away, is going to shut this down and cast him out, that this moment might ruin the intimacy they'd found, he feels a visceral thrill at being allowed to touch. While Will's touch is rarer, he has not often permitted Hannibal to touch him in return. So while this is dangerous, while there is no precedent for this moment, Hannibal is not about to question this gift. Instead he breathes in the heat and sweetness, the low scent of soap and the old traces of the cologne still gently imposed upon Will's skin.

Hannibal's teeth scrape roughly, leaving pink welts over Will's throat. There should be rules, should be guidelines. Giving him freedom to do as he wishes is dangerous, for he has wanted _so much_ over the last few months. Yet even without guidelines, Will is speaking to him in more than words. He whispers such a sweet _please_ once more that sends shivers racing up Hannibal's spine, and Hannibal presses him harder against the counter. His next kiss to Will's skin has even more teeth, though his tongue soothes the scrape soon after. Will's body speaks for him, the small movements of his hips, the way he grips at Hannibal's arms... Hannibal understands enough of what Will wants. Will has given him an outline; all he needs is to fill it in.

"Keep your hips still," he says firmly against Will's throat, his voice hot. He doesn't leave Will aching, though, as Hannibal flexes his thigh between Will's legs, rocking into him, miming the motion that Will had been seeking out, save for on his own terms.

He feels arousal burning low in his stomach, knows that already the panties are having a difficult time containing him, but he doesn't focus on himself. Not any more than he must. For Will is a clear, burning arousal in Hannibal's mind. He aches for more, to touch, to taste, to indulge, but now is not the time.

"Whatever _I_ want is a very broad spectrum. I want to touch you. To taste you. To _see_ you." And so much more, but he cannot mention that now. Will doesn't need to know more. Not yet.

"Perhaps I will ask you to stand here, to allow me to touch you, to _ravage_ you as I see fit. Or perhaps I will tell you to get on your knees for me. You need not choose, only obey. Can you do that?" Hannibal's grip in Will's hair tightens painfully, and he pulls Will's head to the side, straining the tendon in his neck that he then sets his teeth over, and _bites_.

* * *

It should be absurd to have Hannibal taking up this mantle of control while currently wearing women's lingerie.

But it somehow isn't. Will's aware of it (how could he _not_ be?). He can feel the soft fabric against him. He can see it cling to Hannibal's body, tempting and blatant. It's a painful reminder of just how far Hannibal would go for him -- how far he _has._ It's a beacon that Will can't turn away from and ignore.

A part of Will wants the fucking lingerie to be gone, to not have to see it. He wants to tear it off or have Hannibal hastily remove it. Or maybe he could take the knife on the floor and cut it off, the blade slicing through the soft, white material and exposing the man underneath... The thought is ridiculous. It sounds like some bad porno too.

Hannibal may fear him changing his mind, may fear him pushing away and retreating, but Will fears Hannibal leaving him high and dry. He feels bombarded with conflicting urges, with so much directionless _want_ and _need_ for Hannibal that it's actually uncomfortable and nearly panic-inducing. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like it one bit. He wants Hannibal to kiss him until he's out of breath. He wants to rut against Hannibal's panties and not think of anything other than coming. He wants Hannibal to punish him because he deserves it.

Teeth and tongue and lips only mildly distract Will. When an order is quite clearly given, Will complies. It's simply easier to. He stops moving his hips and Will is rewarded by Hannibal's thigh pushing into aching hardness. Will is shaking, his nails digging into Hannibal's arms as pleasure fights against nerves. He feels cracks everywhere, cracks beneath his feet, cracks along Hannibal's skin. He's the reason for them too, the instigator. He's caused these cracks. Maybe there is nothing soft left in him, just blunt, rough edges and a tongue that hisses.

His body tenses as Hannibal outlines possibilities for him. Being ravaged. Kneeling. Before Will can even attempt to answer, his head is yanked to the side and Hannibal bites. Hard.

Immediately he thinks of Hannibal's bloody teeth and the sight of Dolarhyde's throat being ripped open. Hannibal is dangerous. No, Will has not removed Hannibal's teeth.

But Hannibal's sharp teeth do not rip at his flesh. He's not being torn, not being attacked. Will cries out as pain blooms sharply over his neck, hot and visceral, but the pain is settling. It's grounding.

"I-- I don't know," Will grits out. It's honest. He doesn't want to sound so weak, so indecisive, but apparently he is. He doesn't want to fuck up but he doesn't know if he can do what Hannibal asks of him either. It's been months of him being in control. This is a sudden sharp turn...

He hates the way he is crumbling. He loathes it.

"Fuck, please, Hannibal." It seems easier to beg. Will's eyes are open, he's grimacing as he stares up at the kitchen ceiling. He thinks of church roof collapses, how it might be actually comforting to be pinned under rubble and be a goner.

* * *

The issue is that Hannibal does not want to _break_ Will Graham. Will it have been deserved? Yes. There has been little tenderness between them save for two days ago, and while Hannibal aches for such a return, that is not what Will requires. Not now. No, as Hannibal watches Will shake, as he feels the tension and strain and _need_ in Will's body, he knows that Will does not need gentleness. Were Hannibal to cherish him now, he would break him.

It is cruel, in a sense, to be given direction, to be given a _chance_ , but to have limits so clearly imposed. Hannibal wants this man, has wanted him for so long, but there are conditions on this. He cannot indulge, for if he does, he doubts he will ever be able to again.

So instead he is what Will needs him to be. He is sharp teeth and strength, is a rutting thigh and power that Will can beg and fight against. He is control that he rips away from Will for his own benefit, so that Will no longer needs to think. He is strong and sure, and in a sense, though he feels lost and jagged inside, he becomes Will's foundation. If he can't gentle this man, can't soothe him with soft, aching words and care, then he will look at this as necessary in a different way. Will's clear emotions, his need, his uncertainty... he _needs_ this.

Hannibal bites him again, on a different part of his throat. There will be lurid bruises left behind, and even more when Hannibal turns the grounding press of his teeth onto Will's shoulder, where it meets his neck. Two bites in quick succession, a sudden pain to ground as he flexes his thigh between Will's legs. Hannibal's mind whirls with possibilities, for he has no shortage of them, but unfortunately he is not aware of what Will might react to favorably. He does not wish to _break_ this creature.

Pain, sensory differences, overstimulation... he could make Will do almost anything at this point. Yet he cannot see how desperately frayed Will's control is. Powerful but careful. That is how he must progress here. Baby steps without making it _seem_ like it.

Hannibal's grip tightens again in Will's hair and he breathes in the richness of Will's clean scent, of his arousal. He can feel his own pooling low, can feel it tenting his panties, and it makes Hannibal wonder...

"Get on your knees," Hannibal commands, though with a stroke of his fingers through Will's hair, a hint of encouragement despite the firmness of his voice. "Place your hands on my thighs and keep them there. You aren't to move them." Another stroke through Will's hair, would-be-encouraging. "I want you to press your lips to the panties. _Feel_ how hard you've made your girl."

It is a risk, perhaps, but one that Hannibal can easily court. Will likes the feminization.

* * *

The bites that Hannibal gives him are not sweet nips, they're not gentle nor light. Will's skin is going to bruise. Each bite hurts and the ache lingers. But there is no blood, or at least Will can't feel any blood. He's sweating, of course, and with his neck positioned as it is, it would be difficult to see Hannibal anyway, to look for any possible evidence.

Will doesn't try. He doesn't need to ascertain if Hannibal has bitten him to the point of bleeding. Will doesn't try and pull away from the grip in his hair, from Hannibal's body -- hard, but hairless, masculine but wrapped in softness. It's all an exercise in contrasts. It's interesting.

And Will knows Hannibal well enough to know that Hannibal doesn't _want_ to be heavy handed with him. Hannibal, while he may be a sadist, while he may have normally been dominant... Hannibal would rather _not_ have constrictions on how he can touch, what he can say. Will is being unfair again, but why not? Maybe this is just him. Maybe he's always been unfair to Hannibal, the scale tipped in his advantage and Hannibal willingly hanging around despite it.

Hannibal orders him to his knees. Will's been here before. He'd went of his own volition. Down in their kill room, Will had forced a rushed blowjob on Hannibal. It's different being _told_ to do it, though. Hannibal's tone may be serious, but the fingers that stroke through Will's hair speak more of kindness. Will takes in a shaky breath as he listens to Hannibal detail what he wants:

Hands on his thighs. Don't move them. Lips to... the panties. Feel how hard he's made his girl...

Will groans, a surge of arousal momentarily overtaking his nerves. Hannibal releases his hair, and his scalp burns a little, but it's not as bad as the bites. Will rolls his shoulders and steps to the side to allow him room as Hannibal turns so that he's facing Will. Will lowers himself to the kitchen tile. It's a little cool and hard on his knees, but it's not horrible.

Will's hands lift to come and rest on Hannibal's smooth thighs. He takes a moment to push himself forward but he does, his head drawing nearer to the obvious bulge being poorly contained by the panties. The sheen top barely covers and it definitely doesn't hide Hannibal's erection either. The material is thin and as Will's mouth connects, he can feel the heat underneath.

Curiously, he rubs his mouth against it from side to side. It's not bad. Hannibal's legs under his skin are warm and soft but Will resists the urge to slide his hands over the skin. His eyes shut and he continues letting his mouth grow accustomed to Hannibal's straining erection.

* * *

Hannibal questions his word choice only as long as it takes for Will's deep, rich groan to shatter the air between them. Hannibal's gaze darkens in lust, his cock twitching favorably despite the lingerie, and he locks the information away in the back of his mind as concrete. He no longer needs to wonder whether or not it is the lingerie and the resulting feminization that stokes the fire in Will's mind. He knows it is. The sound of Will's groan is proof enough and while it is not something that Hannibal had ever seen himself doing - or enjoying - Will's obvious enjoyment is enough to change his mind. On a normal day, when Will is not so crippled by the weight of his choices, by the shattered foundation beneath his feet, Hannibal knows that he will be willing to repeat this entire process for him again. Lingerie, shaving, waxing, the feminization... he knows who and what he is. That has never been a concern. If Will enjoys this, he will have it.

But right now Will needs something else, and Hannibal guides him into it. He turns them, allowing Will the space he needs to drop to his knees, and Hannibal watches, his pulse quickening in his throat, as Will looks at him and then slowly lowers himself down. The sight alone has Hannibal aching but while sexual arousal is fierce at the sight, that is not what this is about. Not entirely.

Instead he sets one hand on Will's head, stroking through his hair slowly, encouraging. His gaze remains dark as Will's hands lift to set against Hannibal's smooth thighs, and the touch is enough to make Hannibal's breath hitch. Will touching him will always stoke his own fires higher.

Mere days ago, Will had dropped to his knees in the basement, had wrenched Hannibal's trousers down and had indulged himself. This is nothing like that, for it is not Will in control now. The position may be similar but the emotions are not. And when Will leans in and _finally_ presses his lips to the heat of Hannibal's clothed cock, Hannibal's lips part on a rough breath but his eyes do not close. He watches, feeling the slow slide of Will's lips, the light rasp of stubble, and Hannibal tightens his hold in Will's hair, humming a low note of satisfaction.

"Good boy," Hannibal breathes, and then gently rocks his hips forward. He doesn't thrust, but he does feel the gentle scratch of Will's stubble intimately through the fabric over his cock. It gives him his next idea. "You wish purpose, wish direction. I want you to please me. Only use your lips, your chin, your cheeks. I want you _very_ familiar with the lingerie you have requested I wear. You aren't to remove it. Enjoy the sensation of it against your face until I tell you to stop."

Hannibal shifts just enough to extend one of his legs. With Will's hands still on his thighs, Hannibal is careful not to move too quickly, but he presses his shin between Will's legs, feeling the hard line of his cock through his boxers. Then Hannibal adds, "you may move your hips now."

* * *

Will had erroneously believed kneeling would make him feel weak. Kneeling is generally seen as submissive and while he is technically submitting to Hannibal, Will doesn't feel weak because of the position he's been ordered to take. His hands unmoving on Hannibal's bare thighs, his mouth pressed against contained hardness and Hannibal's hands stroking through his hair... It doesn't undo him. Not by a longshot.

He feels weak because he doesn't know when and where he will stop. Because he's so fucking desperate and in his desperation, he's lost. Will had been desperate after he thought Hannibal had left, but he had responded and taken action. He'd taken _Hannibal_ , Will on his knees and ravenous and forcing a blowjob and orgasm on Hannibal whether Hannibal wanted it or not.

He's not that same man now. The contrast is glaring and uncomfortable.

Hannibal calls him a good boy. Maybe he's the dog now. Will flinches, but it's more from his internal dialogue than from Hannibal's praise. He knows Hannibal means nothing malicious by the words, after all. Hannibal isn't rude when he cants his hips forward, against Will's lower face. When Hannibal speaks, Will doesn't look up, but he does listen.

Hannibal wants Will to please him, but he can only use his lips, chin, and cheeks. Hannibal wants Will to become very familiar with the lingerie but not to remove it.

Seems simple enough. Will's head gives a slight nod. Before he can throw himself into the task (because what else would he do?), one of Hannibal's legs stretches out, and his shin slides in between Will's legs, purposefully pressing against his cock. Will shudders at the attention and he feels himself leak as Hannibal gives him permission to move his hips and work off some energy at least.

Will does just that. He ruts against Hannibal's leg, groaning roughly at the blunted pleasure. He caresses Hannibal's bulge with his cheek, mouth, and chin. Will pours himself into it, he gives in and stops worrying. Like this, it's simple. He can move his hips. His hands must stay on Hannibal's thighs. Only his mouth, cheek and chin can actively touch Hannibal.

Will nuzzles more than just Hannibal's cock. He strokes his cheek against Hannibal's pelvis, across his lower abdomen, he enjoys the material of the lingerie. Will continues to rock against the sturdy leg, a frustrating pleasure building up. He wants to lick and bite, to pull away the panties with his teeth, but Will holds himself back. Instead, he lets his mouth drag along the outlining trim of the panties on one leg while his eyes flick up to regard Hannibal.

* * *

Hannibal believes that giving Will an outlet is the only safe course of action. To demand that Will pleasure him, to risk this uncertain peace between them following such a drastic shift in dynamic _without_ giving Will something to do to burn off some of his excess energy strikes Hannibal as foolish. He is no fool. Seeing the way that Will immediately begins to move his hips, feeling the hard press of Will's cock through his boxers, against his shin, Hannibal knows he's made the right choice. Yet despite this he is still careful, still mindful of Will's responses.

As thrilling a sight as it is to have Will nuzzling against the front of the panties, to feel the gentle scratch of his stubble against where Hannibal is most sensitive, he does not stop monitoring Will for further fissures. How long has he wished for something like this? A moment of equality, of reciprocity. Yet now, watching Will's desperation, watching the cracks through his whole body, Hannibal knows that he cannot merely let himself go and enjoy the sight, nor the sensation. He shudders deeply, his breath catching as Will throws himself into his task, but Hannibal still minds him for signs that Will's submission has taken a rough turn.

It doesn't. At least it hasn't yet. Will obeys, and he obeys gladly. Hannibal's lips part on a rougher gasp as Will nuzzles him, moving his cheek in the direction that Hannibal's cock lays in the lingerie. The scratch is a nearly-unpleasant sensation, but seeing the desperate bliss on Will's face, seeing the single-minded focus is something entirely different. Hannibal shudders, watching in awe as Will not only pays the panties attention, but the rest of the lingerie as well. Hannibal feels Will's warmth and the scratch of stubble against his abdomen - so close to the exit wound of the bullet that it makes his muscles jump in anticipation - and then down to the sensitive line of his thigh. Hannibal's moan is soft, breathless, but pleased.

He lowers his hand then, his fingers winding into Will's hair once more. Yet instead of yanking him away or pressing him in closer, Hannibal curls his fingers through Will's hair in a rough, encouraging stroke. He tugs, he scratches his blunt nails over Will's scalp, and he varies the sensation to ensure that Will cannot get used to it. All the while Will's hips move, his cheek nuzzles, and Hannibal watches in awe.

"I can feel the tension in your muscles. You so desperately wish to push, to reclaim what has been yours for so long," Hannibal says, and his voice is low with approval. "But you're keeping yourself in check for me so beautifully, Will. You're doing well."

Hannibal's shiver is deeper now, precome dotting at his slit only to be whisked away by the fabric still pressed against his cock. He can feel the strain, the discomfort, the scratch that the lace brings. And it is that, as well as the feeling of Will's frustration that makes him add, breathlessly, "use your tongue. Make your girl wet for you, but do not remove the lingerie. Taste it."

* * *

Does Will like this? Does he enjoy being on his knees for Hannibal, receiving orders and complying? Will is unsure. He hadn't thought he would ever do this, that he'd let Hannibal have this power over him, that he'd _let_ himself be desperate and go along with it too. This feels like it's been wrenched from him, his control yanked from his sweaty hands.

Will hadn't wanted this to happen. He hadn't planned to ever do this, to be like this... But since the injection of Hannibal into his life, not much had gone to plan, has it? This is pretty much par for the course. But what's been outlined for him, the rules? They serve to ground him, to provide a framework for Will to exist in. Later he may mentally applaud for Hannibal for being able to rein him in, for taking the necessary action to handling him.

Will is barely aware of the sounds Hannibal is making. His focus is on the feel of lace, on the warmth of Hannibal's skin, on trying to keep his own demons at bay. Will groans softly when he feels Hannibal's hand stroke through his hair, the sensation pleasant. When Hannibal speaks, it's difficult to listen. Will doesn't want to hear that Hannibal can sense his struggle, the supposed desire to 'reclaim' what's been his for so long (because Hannibal is his, his, his and for so long--) The compliments are difficult to bear. Will doesn't feel beautiful right now. This submission feels stolen, but he doesn't pull away. Will doesn't say _Red,_ for what would follow then?

He understands the next command. He could use his tongue. He could lick against the fabric, along Hannibal's cock, suck against the head. He could make his girl nice and wet. He could. The idea is appealing. But it's not enough.

Will stops pushing against Hannibal's shin. He looks up, his fingers curling to dig his nails into Hannibal's smooth thighs.

"You're going to fuck me," Will states, his voice raspy but determined. "Right here. In the kitchen. I want you to."


	8. Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal wonders idly if he could merely reach a hand out and feel it thrum through his skin. He wonders if Will would feel it too. Is it merely static and tension, or is it a current that connects them both - that thrives _through_ them - in an endless cycle?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh...

Giving Will instruction will likely assist him in finding his footing here, or so Hannibal assumes. It seems to be working so far, for feeling the slide of Will's lips against the lace of Hannibal's panties, feeling each hot breath and aching scratch of stubble feels _good_. Will's desire is still obvious, the scent of it still perfect on the air, mixing with the scent of Hannibal's own arousal and the fresh fruit still cut up behind them.

Yet instead of pushing for it, instead of demanding it, Will stays on his knees, keeps nuzzling, keeps touching, and Hannibal feels his own desire climb higher. He's familiar with Will's mouth, but the one occasion he'd felt it properly had been rushed and quick and almost violent. It had been Will's fear rising to the surface, just like this is Will's uncertainty.

So when Will _doesn't_ heed Hannibal's instructions, when he _doesn't_ open his mouth and use his tongue, Hannibal hesitates for a moment, then wonders idly if this might actually be a good thing instead. If Will is hesitant, perhaps his confidence is returning. While Hannibal believes he will miss this dynamic, he won't fault Will for returning to 'normal'.

But that isn't what happens. Hannibal isn't given the order to get to his knees, or his hands and knees. Will doesn't shove him down or shove him back against the counter. Instead, Will looks up at him and Hannibal is caught by the fire in his eyes as nails bite - sudden and swift - into his skin. Hannibal's breath catches sharply, but nothing properly prepares him for the command that comes.

Hannibal's eyes widen slightly, his lips parting in a look of awed shock. Heat races like fire under Hannibal's skin as he stands there, looking down at Will on his knees, his eyes determined, his voice steady. For a moment Hannibal doesn't move. Then, finally, after what feels like ages, he visibly draws himself back together and then nods.

"Then I will. Find a comfortable position while I retrieve the lubricant." Hannibal wets his lips, attempting to remain more or less composed despite the mental images trying to claw at him. "Can you do that?"

* * *

Will owes this to Hannibal. This is something he can give, but it has to be on Will's own terms. Being caught up in some moment and possibly moaning out such a request? No. Never. It seems horrifying to Will. He doesn't ever want to be like that, to be caught off guard by a stray desire. Will's decided this. He's stopped this twisted reversal of domination. Will has chosen where and when... Will needs this and he thinks maybe Hannibal does too.

Something Will doesn't know is where they are now. Who they are with each other. Once defined lines have been smeared and it's his own fucking doing. Will has no one to blame but himself. It's intimidating to say the least.

Hannibal's reaction isn't glaring, but it's there. Will sees Hannibal's eyes widen and his mouth open in surprise. Will doesn't look away and eventually Hannibal nods and seems to regain enough composure. When Hannibal speaks up he sounds... practical. But Will can appreciate it, he really can. He knows Hannibal is apprehensive, yet Hannibal absolutely wants to do this. Hannibal is desperate for touch and intimacy and maybe Will is right there with him.

"Yes, I can do that," Will answers and his hands move to Hannibal's hips, using Hannibal to steady himself as he stands back up. Once more, Will looks over Hannibal in the all-too-alluring lingerie. Christ. He doesn't think he will ever grow tired of the sight. Will lifts his hands to run his fingers over nearly translucent fabric covering Hannibal's nipples. "I'll be here." With that, Will pushes softly at Hannibal to indicate he wants him to get going.

Hannibal complies and when the kitchen is cleared Will takes a deep breath and quickly works his undershirt and boxers off. He folds them, placing them on the chair that the lace robe is draped on. Will considers slipping on the robe to see how it feels. He's curious what Hannibal's reaction would be.

He doesn't. Instead, Will glances around the kitchen trying to figure out the next matter at hand: where he's going to get fucked. He could lean over the counter, over the table, but that seem too impersonal for what's about to happen. So Will makes a decision and walks to the table. He hops his ass up on the edge and carefully lies himself down on his back. His legs dangle freely, his cock is still hard. He's like a feast laid out for Hannibal. Will stares at the ceiling and observes the curious jolt of anticipation that skirts through him when he hears Hannibal coming back. He hopes Hannibal is still in the lingerie.

* * *

Hannibal feels like his world has shifted. Not shattered, for he's still more or less in control of _some_ things in this new life, but never had he imagined that Will might ask him for this. He'd ached for it, dreamed, perhaps, but had never hoped that Will might comply. He'd _never_ assumed that Will would ask it of _him_ , but Will Graham has a long, aching history of surprising Hannibal when he least expects it.

Hannibal is almost fond as he regards Will now, though there's more to it than that. He watches as Will slowly stands, but the brush of Will's fingers over the fabric of the lingerie is enough to make Hannibal shiver. The memory of Will paying careful attention to his nipples is burned deeply into Hannibal's brain. Seeing him like this now makes Hannibal _want_ to remain, but... he wants what Will has asked of him more.

So he leaves, and as soon as he's out of sight, Hannibal allows himself a moment to just stop and reflect, breathing rougher, his arousal so deep that he swears he can taste it. He gives Will a moment to situate himself, but he takes one for himself as well. At this point, he needs it, for the reality of what he's been asked is almost daunting.

Hannibal walks to the living room, aware of where Will had left the lubricant last, and while it takes him a moment to find it, Hannibal simply takes it in hand (a hand that is shaking slightly) and breathes deeply. He's so hard that it hurts, for the thought of Will allowing him to do this is as aching as it is amazing. Not willing to allow Will the time to change his mind, Hannibal turns then and makes his way back into the kitchen.

He's expecting to see Will bent over the counter, or the table. He's expecting impersonal, or distant, Will not truly wishing to embrace this side of himself so readily. So when Hannibal walks into the kitchen and sees Will spread out on the table, his breath catches and then stops entirely for a long few seconds. When he lets it out again, it's on a quick, audible rush that sounds akin to awe. Perhaps because it is. Hannibal had never expected Will to _show_ himself, to wish to have this connection while face-to-face.

Hannibal swallows and then walks over. Without thinking, he reaches out, and one of his hands brushes over one of Will's bare thighs, stroking through the hair there and then moving up higher, petting his hip and skirting the edges of the scar on Will's abdomen. He wants to linger there, to pay it attention, but he doesn't know how Will might respond to it. So he doesn't.

"I... did not expect this," Hannibal admits, sounding just shy of stunned. "You're a vision."

* * *

It should feel strange to be completely naked and laying on their kitchen table on his back. Will's legs aren't tightly closed either, he's not trying to hide or make Hannibal work for it. Will is waiting for Hannibal to return. For Hannibal to bring lube so Will can eventually be fucked. This isn't... this isn't something Will has ever fantasized about, truthfully. A distant part in his mind assumed that, one day, he'd probably return the favor and let Hannibal fuck him, because certainly, this dynamic of withholding had to stop at some point.

And it already has.

Hannibal, without knowing it, has wrecked it all. Hannibal had fucking _complied_ , had got the lingerie and waxed and shaved for him and it had ensnared Will so completely, so wholly. He'd felt like a man possessed and Will remembers how sweetly he had savored Hannibal, how _loving_ he had been. The dirty talk that had ventured into _Daddy_ and _sweetgirl_ and _baby_ _girl_ and the touching that had been for Hannibal's pleasure, not his own. The damn feminization, referring to Hannibal as his wife, it had sparked everything. Set them down this path, oriented them, and Will doesn't think there's any turning back. There's no undo button.

Would he want to though? As he hears Hannibal return, Will's head rises an inch to see that Hannibal is still dressed in the alluring white lingerie. There's lubricant in Hannibal's hand, too. And Will sees Hannibal stop and stare, realizing the implication of the position that he's picked. Will's chosen to be exposed and present, to be face-to-face. If Hannibal can refer to himself as Will's wife, as his girl... Will can do this. Hannibal had gone into the city and stripped for his entire body to be waxed... Hannibal had shopped for lingerie. Hannibal had trusted him again to touch, to fuck. Yes, Will _can_ do this.

The touch is warm and welcome and Will is surprised to find how pleasant it really is. Hannibal's hand is gentle as it runs up his thigh and then over his hip. Will tenses, expecting Hannibal to go higher, to touch the scar, but it doesn't come and he finds himself honestly disappointed.

_'You're a vision.'_

"You are too," Will responds honestly and he reaches his hand out. Hannibal passes over the lube and Will uncaps it. His neck cranes up so he can watch himself: he purposefully squeezes the lube out - and along - his scar. It's cool as it falls onto his skin, translucent gel coating the raised skin of his scar in a line. Hannibal will have to touch his scar now to get the lube. Will licks his lips as he spreads his legs.

"Daddy wants you to finger him," Will challenges, his hand is still holding onto the bottle of lube, making it clear that the lube Hannibal needs to use is on the scar.

* * *

Hannibal doesn't think to keep the lubricant once Will holds his hand out for it. He has spent so many months quietly catering to this man that such an action is almost unkind, for Hannibal moves to cater to Will's whims without thinking these days. Be it a cup of coffee or a blade, Hannibal is quite used to responding to that wordless request to be handed something. It only strikes him once Will has the bottle that Will had told Hannibal to take _him._ Confusion rears up in the following moment, Hannibal's brow furrowing in curiosity, in thought, as Will looks at him and then uncaps the lube.

He's not expecting Will to suddenly squeeze the lubricant out onto his scar, the clear gel reflecting the bright morning light in a way that borders on beauty. Hannibal freezes, recalling his earlier desire to touch Will's scar,

and it strikes him then that Will must have noticed. This, Hannibal realizes, is Will's response. A challenge, one that is only backed up when Will speaks. Hannibal quietly looks at the bottle of lube and watches as Will holds it securely. The message is clear, and as arousal curls through him like fire at the recurrence of the title that Will has chosen for himself (and the memories and sensations it still elicits in Hannibal's body even now) Hannibal wets his lips and meets Will's eyes. Then, pointedly, he nods.

Hannibal slides his hand up slowly, then uses his other to carefully lift Will's right leg. Stepping in close between Will's spread legs, Hannibal hooks Will's left leg over his shoulder, feeling the strong, corded muscle and the hair, the proof that Will is a man and unlike many of those who Hannibal had taken to bed in the past. His fingers skirt along Will's thigh just as the fingers of the other hand tentatively touch Will's abdomen. Hannibal hesitates only for a moment, then moves his hand up, fingertips stroking over the scar upon Will's abdomen. Verbally, it's in order to gather the lubricant. In reality, Hannibal touches because he _can_ , and the desire is clear in his eyes as he strokes the sensitive skin.

"If Daddy wishes it, I will oblige," Hannibal says, though there is more in his voice than mere arousal. There's something shattered there, like the fine edges of broken glass, and even as Hannibal gathers the lube on two of his fingers to bring down to gently touch the hot, furled skin of Will's hole, the shattered edges grow. Hannibal rubs his fingers slowly, shuddering at such an intimate touch, at the knowledge of what he's doing. And as he tenses his index finger and begins to slowly press it in, he can resist no longer.

Mindful of Will's leg, Hannibal bends down. There is every chance that Will might kick him away, might shove at him bodily, but the desire - the regret, the awe, the need - to feel the scar is too much. Hannibal doesn't stop until his lips come to press against the jagged scar against Will's abdomen, mindless of the lubricant. Then, as Hannibal's finger presses inside, he flattens his tongue to Will's scar and licks one of its edges slowly, with a soft, wounded sound.

* * *

Hannibal has hurt him. Hannibal has scarred him. Will doesn't want it to be avoided. It can't be. Not now. They haven't exactly talked about that night, those decisions, the consequences. Is there anything to say? It feels like both yes and no, like there's probably too much to say and simultaneously not enough. Where does one begin touching an unearthed grave? Do they dig at the head or the foot? Maybe it's best to leave the buried rotten thing beneath...

But Will can at least offer and force Hannibal's hand in this. He can take back some control too. He's not ready to give it up, not all of it, not yet. Hannibal's eyes meet his own and Will sees understanding before the nod is given. Even now, there's an element of relief present that Hannibal is going to comply. Yes, Hannibal has obeyed in the past, over and over again, but this is new. This is their dynamic in flux, in transition.

A tremor goes through Will as Hannibal's hand slides upward, closer to his scar and closer to the waiting lubricant. And Will doesn't put up a fight when Hannibal seeks to lift one leg, letting it rest over Hannibal's shoulder and effectively exposing him more for the upcoming task. Will can feel the sheer material of the lingerie under his leg and it's a bit of a grounding point for him.

And then fingers swipe to gather lube and there is no mistaking the obvious hunger in Hannibal's eyes as he touches. The words are more than mere compliance. It feels like a promise laced underneath. A promise that Hannibal will always oblige if it's in Will's best interest, a promise that Hannibal will continue to try for him no matter the obstacles that Will erects.

Will says nothing. Slick fingers lift off and find his untouched hole.

And then they touch, _wetness_ and _Hannibal_ mainly streaking through Will's mind. The lube is rubbed and spread around evenly and Will initially fidgets at the strangeness, but forces himself to still. The thing is, it's not necessarily bad. It's just weird and sensitive and has his pulse picking up, his skin hyper-aware of the foreign touch. What feels like possibly too fast, Hannibal's finger breaches him and pushes in. Will's done this to Hannibal. He knows of the hot clench around a finger, how the body can accommodate such an intrusion, but it's still entirely different to have it done to him. Will breathes and tries to not clench, to not fight it. It gets easier when Hannibal bends over him and Will immediately knows what Hannibal going for.

It doesn't matter that there is still lube smeared on his skin -- on the scar. Lips come to touch and then lips open and a tongue licks and Will's eyelids flutter closed at the confusing twist of sensations. (He doesn't want to think of Hannibal licking the remnants of a wound like a dog.)

"Fuck, Han - Hannibal," Will grits out. His hand tightens around the bottle of lube while his other raises and buries itself in Hannibal's hair. He presses down on Hannibal's head in clear encouragement.

* * *

Hannibal is but a pious man at present, his finger pressing inside such a searing, tight heat that he'd never assumed that Will might one day allow, and his tongue delicately licking over the remnants of perhaps his greatest mistake. As much as his body is primed by the feeling of Will's hole clenching around Hannibal's finger, it is the attention paid to the scar that truly wounds Hannibal.

The flesh under his tongue tastes of chemicals and it is not ideal, but past the bitter taste is Will's skin and the soft, delicate flesh beneath. Hannibal licks slowly, cleaning the traces of chemical slick away until he tastes nothing but Will's skin, and only then does he allow himself to relax, to open his mouth wider and press his lips to either side of the jagged, off-white scar. It must be sensitive, must be sore even now, and Hannibal closes his eyes against the rush of possession and regret that both tear through his mind.

That he had allowed himself to indulge like this, to wound Will so deeply, is nothing short of cruelty. Hannibal knows that. Though as his focus sharpens, as he feels Will's fingers come to rest in his hair and hears the soft, hitched sound of Will's voice, Hannibal can do nothing but groan softly, the sound low in pleasure but also rich and full of emotion. He thinks back to kneeling at Will's feet, thinks back to fingers in his hair then, and while Hannibal has never _wished_ to be thought of as a pet, the apology in each slow lick is quite obvious. Will presses down, encouraging, and Hannibal keeps his eyes closed as he laves at the skin, tracing the scar's edges with his tongue and pressing slow, reverent kisses to the skin.

Though despite his focus, he does not abandon his task, doesn't dismiss Will's request. Instead Hannibal monitors Will's body closely. Will had not been kind the first time, had not taken ample time to do this for him. He had stretched and taken and left Hannibal there, trembling with need and full of Will's come. But it had not remained like that, for the next time had been different, had been sweet and soft and heartfelt. Hannibal _could_ pay Will back in kind, could be rough and ruthless.

He isn't. He strokes Will's skin with a slow, careful press and when he slides his finger in deeply, it is in short, slow thrusts that press in deeper and monitor Will's muscles for tension. Hannibal presses in slowly, not rushing, not forcing, and when he is deep enough to curl his finger, he braces his second finger against Will's perineum and then curls his finger in a gradual, careful movement. Hannibal's past as a physician is undoubtedly a boon here, for it takes him no time at all to find the small gland within Will's body and stimulate it carefully.

"How you so perfectly lay me to ruin," Hannibal murmurs against Will's scar, the words so thick with reverence that they border on prayer.

* * *

The attention on his scar is unrelenting. Will isn't entirely prepared for the feeling of Hannibal's mouth and tongue _here_. His touch to Hannibal's hair and scalp has Hannibal responding with a groan. Will encourages this. He encourages Hannibal to lick and kiss and know this wound intimately after the fact. A part of Will wishes it had been Hannibal that stitched him back up...

Steady hands as the needle went this way and that way, one suture at a time, putting Humpty Dumpty back together (more or less). He doesn't know if that's necessarily a good want (who's he kidding? It's probably not). Had Hannibal's hand shaken as he held the knife and punished Will's transgressions? Will doesn't think so. Hannibal had been wrathful like the old gods, terrifying and vindicated, and bodies and blood left in his wake.

But Hannibal isn't that same man now. Hannibal hasn't been that man for a while. Hannibal is still wearing the white dainty lingerie after all. Hannibal is only over him because Will told him to.

Hannibal's finger is steady as it works to open him up. Hannibal's mouth and tongue... They worship at his scar and the laser-focused attention given to the scar has Will's skin sensitive. Will doesn't voice any concern. Hannibal likely knows and why shouldn't there be some pain laced with each reverent touch? Hannibal licks and his finger moves carefully. Will lies on the kitchen table, one knee bent over Hannibal's shoulder and stares up at the ceiling.

Hannibal may be fingering him carefully, but he's also thorough. Will steadily feels himself loosen, the uncomfortableness slowly fading. Will's attention is split between this new undertaking and Hannibal's mouth, but it's soon jerked to the former when Hannibal changes things up and a jittery trill of pleasure shoots through him. Will's fingers grip tighter in Hannibal's hair as a ragged gasp leaves his mouth.

Hannibal's words... Will almost misses them. It takes him a few seconds to calm back down. A part of Will wants to scold Hannibal for not strictly sticking to the fingering - to accomplish what Will wants (to get fucked, to give this to Hannibal) - but Will doesn't have it in him. Not right now at least.

"Been there for a while," Will murmurs and he's referring to being in ruin. "So why not join me."

* * *

There is a part of Hannibal that wishes to use his teeth, to press them to Will's scar and bite down. What is worship without sacrifice? What is pleasure without pain? Something rough slides under Hannibal's skin as he feels the tangle of Will's fingers in his hair. The desire to bite, to taste blood, to rip the wound back open so that he can stitch it together himself is distantly present but Hannibal doesn't do a thing. Instead he laves at the scar with his tongue, feeling Will's muscles tense and twitch in sensitivity. He cleans Will's scar of chemicals, the taste slightly unpleasant but it is the flesh beneath that Hannibal seeks.

It is a risk. Will hadn't told him to do this, but in this moment, Hannibal feels slightly bolder. There is no predicting what lies between them now. Only days ago Will had withheld his touch. Only days ago Hannibal had been starved for it, desperate for the slightest touch to his hair, his cheek, his shoulder. A single pass of Will's fingers had sparked along his skin like fire. Now things are different, but _are_ they? Will's fingers in his hair tug and grip tightly and it stings but Hannibal _basks_ in that ache. It's touch, but he is no closer to understanding the intricacies behind this new development.

Will's request is something borne of desperation. Hannibal has not seen this man desperate often. Will in the basement, when he'd gotten to his knees and forcibly taken Hannibal's cock into his mouth... that had been desperation and anger. This is a different kind of desperation. Not for the first time, Hannibal realizes that he cannot predict this man. Will's distance is no longer as cold, but when Hannibal dresses like he has, it becomes something else. The situation is complicated.

But this isn't. This is Hannibal's tongue against Will's skin. This is Will's leg over one shoulder, the scratch of hair a constant reminder that this is _Will_ and no one else. This is Hannibal's finger curling and Will's body jolting with a pleasure he's undoubtedly not used to, and Hannibal shivers at the clench around his finger, at the way Will's body all but sings under him. At the way Will's fingers grip his hair painfully tight. Hannibal doesn't relent, pressing his finger in deep again and curling it on the slide out.

Will's words hold something within them when he speaks. Hannibal stills, then he presses a second finger to the tightly-clenched skin and begins to rub with both, dipping in slowly. He doesn't rush as he spreads the lubricant around. He presses in slowly, monitoring Will for overt pain, but his mind is still caught by the bitterness in Will's words. Hannibal wets his lips, then presses them to Will's scar.

"With you, laid to ruin. Where else would I go, Will, if not with you? I will not leave."

* * *

In ruin... It's nothing new to Will. Will's former life had been destroyed by Hannibal, after all. Recovering from the Encephalitis and facing multiple charges, Will had frequently chosen to retreat from the crumbled rubble of his life, from the pitiful looks from Alana and the distrustful ones from Jack. Even after his exoneration, even after welcoming his dogs back, nothing had been the same. There could be no going back to naivety, to the simpler times, the _safer_ times.

In ruin... Will remembers bleeding out on Hannibal's kitchen tile, Abigail's life sputtering to an end. He'd been left then. The sound of Hannibal's retreating footsteps had been barely heard over the roar of blood and the crash of agony. Will had clutched onto his belly, desperately trying to keep his insides inside as he tried in vain to help Abigail. His beautiful stag had laid there wounded as well and Will had known then that he'd also slashed at Hannibal.

In ruin... Waking up in his bed after Muskrat Farm... His wounds had been tended to, his clothes changed, his body washed. It seems like so long ago that Will had glanced around at his home that didn't feel like a home. He'd left in search of Hannibal, got on a boat and sailed, like there had been a hook in him, beckoning him, yanking him... But in that too-quiet morning, Will had ripped it out. He'd tried to rip Hannibal out, to excise the conjoined growth Hannibal had become.

Obviously he's done a piss poor job of it. Futile.

These physical sensations are foreign to Will. It's more than a little disconcerting to now be on the receiving end. After all, he remembers thinking that he wouldn't allow this. There's pressure and tightness, there's a stretch, and then there's the jittery almost too sensitive pleasure of his prostate. His one hand holds tightly to the lube while his fingers grip in Hannibal's hair. The table is sturdy underneath him but Will doesn't feel safe.

At first, he doesn't focus on Hannibal's words because Hannibal eases another finger in and it has Will grimacing at the slight discomfort. Then the words do slide into place and Will remembers the panic he'd felt over the idea that Hannibal had left because no note had been present. His desperation had had him getting to his knees and forcing the blowjob and orgasm on Hannibal.

This morning his desperation has him doing _this._ It strikes Will that he doesn't _want_ to be. This had felt like an action he'd _needed_ to take. He'd needed to make amends because... Because there's far too many reasons.

"Stop," Will says as he pushes at Hannibal's head. He means it all. He means everything. The lube is forgotten, that hand now pushing at Hannibal's shoulder, indicating that he wants Hannibal to back up. And as Hannibal withdraws, Will shakily sits up before getting to his feet. He's only half-hard, but sex and arousal are the furthest thing from his mind now.

* * *

There is no overt sign that anything is wrong, as most of their interactions as of late have fallen into the realm of unhealthy and reckless. Will's muscles don't tense, he doesn't seize or shove like Hannibal has his teeth latched into his skin. Instead there is a simple change in the air, something that Hannibal hardly notices as he focuses on the feeling of Will's body tight around his fingers and his skin warm and smooth under his tongue and lips. But just as the sensation builds in Will's body, so too does whatever seems to be poisoning his mind. Hannibal doesn't notice that the change has taken place between them until it's far too late, and so when Will's hand suddenly pushes, Hannibal is caught off guard just enough for confusion to flicker behind his eyes.

He looks up as much as he can with Will's fingers in his hair, and at first he believes this to be some sort of test. Will had told him that 'Red' meant stop, after all. But as he looks up and takes in the complicated twist of expression on Will's face, something hesitant and careful washes over Hannibal immediately. He stills, then he lets Will push him away even if the act itself feels like tearing something at his core. He wets his lips as he leans back, then when he notes Will's squirming, Hannibal draws his fingers back carefully.

Will's on his feet as quickly as he can be. It takes him a moment, but when he's standing, Hannibal finally notices the change in the air. The change in Will's posture. He quickly observes that Will's gaze is not locked on him, and that while he's still partially-hard, there's a complicated mix of emotions on his face. None of them indicate that he wishes this to continue in any way.

Hannibal stands there. A part of him wishes to ask, to prompt Will into explaining what had just happened, but Hannibal can see by the look in Will's eyes that very little information will likely be forthcoming. He frowns, his brow furrowing, and as the spell of intimacy is broken, Hannibal finds himself wondering just what else might happen. He doesn't bother wondering if it had been something he'd done or said. Nothing so trite would change things.

One look at Will tells him all he needs to know: Will hadn't been ready. It does pose the question as to _why_ he'd pressed, but does Hannibal dare ask?

He should. Lingerie aside, he is still Hannibal. And if he allows himself to be honest, he is frustrated, and confused. He sighs.

"Perhaps you might feel more at ease if you discussed what might be wrong."

* * *

There's lube inside of him and Hannibal's saliva coating his scar. They've been rather intimate but now the moment has skidded to a stop on his command. Even with the fingers gone, Will feels the evidence that Hannibal had been working him open to be fucked.

Two fingers in.They'd been getting there. Physically the sensation is odd, but not bad. Hannibal hadn't hurt him, of course. Not this time, no because Hannibal is now tender and careful, as if he's a precious reclaimed artifact.

Too bad Will thinks he's already broken. Will has crumbled. (In ruin.) And maybe he's picked up what pieces he can and held them close to himself, but he is not whole. (And he's seen himself break and shatter many times, pieces of himself cracking--)

If anyone could restore and piece him back together, surely it would be Hannibal, but does Will want to surrender the rubble to Hannibal? Palms outstretched, shards beared? Sometimes it feels like that's all he has left of himself.

So Will stands his guard and clutches his brokenness fiercely. He'll guard it. He'll cling to it like a life preserver. He meets Hannibal's eyes and Will can so clearly see the aching frustration and confusion riddling Hannibal.

He's yanked and jerked Hannibal's chain this way and that way. This is his doing. This is his mess.

"No more tests, Hannibal," Will says quietly, but resolutely. He means the lingerie. He means Hannibal trying to possibly sway him.

Will turns to the chair and grabs his boxers, pulling them back on. He forgoes putting his shirt on. "Go change and come back. I'll be waiting."

* * *

Is it not human nature to poke and prod, even when one shouldn't? As Hannibal stands there and watches Will slowly piece himself back together, he is aware that this has shifted something. The rubble above him has budged, but Hannibal suspects that instead of lifting to free him, it has only slipped, threatening to crush him even more.

Frustration burns in his chest, for the desire to pry Will's mind open and search out his secrets, the code within, is almost impossible to bear. Hannibal had been patient, but getting so close to finally having Will that way? Getting so close to intimacy? That's another matter entirely. He'd gotten so close, had had his fingers metaphorically and physically buried, and Will had come to his senses to shove him away again. It leaves Hannibal feeling hesitant and uncertain, but there is also a feeling within that he has hardly felt since their fall: anger.

It's frustration and confusion more than anger, but he is simply muzzled, not without claws and fangs. Getting a taste makes it worse.

But Hannibal complies. He steps back. The only sign of his displeasure is when his jaw tightens firmly when Will instructs him to avoid tests in the future. If only Will had known his desperation, that it had been an attempt to understand... but alas. The pendulum starts swinging again.

Hannibal leaves the kitchen as it is, with the fruit on the counter. He says nothing as he turns and picks up the silk robe he'd worn, then steps away. Arousal lingers as he walks, for the sensation of the silk against his skin is still enticing, but he blocks it out of his mind as he walks upstairs and strips down.

He washes his hands free of the lube and doesn't bother taking the time to bring himself to orgasm. There's a tightness of irritation within, but Hannibal suspects that it is masking a sort of pit in his stomach. He ignores it. Instead he gets dressed as Will wants, in fitting black boxers instead of the lingerie he'd been curiously wearing. He pulls on a pair of black slacks and he reaches at first for a sweater, then hesitates.

When he walks back downstairs to meet Will in the living room as requested, he's wearing the slacks, but also a slate grey vest over a pale blue dress shirt, with a teal tie tucked into the vest. There is no suit jacket - his only concession - but it's clear that he's making a statement with it. No tests means no tests. No femininity. From feminine to masculine once more. Hannibal feels the bitterness within, but it's not because Will had stopped him. It's because he still has no way of knowing how to weather this storm. He has no way of knowing how to weather _Will_.

He still finds him in the sitting room anyway. Hannibal stops in the doorway, though, waiting, curious. His jaw is still slightly tight.

* * *

He's not going to allow Hannibal to manipulate or sway him. Not in this. Never again. Of course, Will knows it hadn't been done maliciously. They haven't talked about what needs to be talked about. Their shifting dynamic seems to be in a volatile flux and it's tangling them both up, setting them up to trip and fall and possibly pull the other one down. Details should be worked out, a framework should be developed, but Will hasn't allowed that to occur and Hannibal has...

Hannibal has tolerated it. Tolerated _him._ Hannibal is desperate, is the thing. Desperate enough to slip on the lingerie of his own free will and hope for the best possible outcome. Because Hannibal yearns for him, longs for his touch.

But like a loyal dog, Hannibal obeys him and leaves. Will listens to the sounds of Hannibal retreating up the stairs. Each step seems even and it settles Will. The now-distance calms his senses. Will gathers himself up. He looks from the discarded lube on the table to the cut up fruit waiting for them. Will can't imagine sitting down to partake of breakfast after this. After what he's done and not done, said and not said.

With a hard swallow, Will decides to slip on his shirt after all and he leaves the kitchen, heading to the living room. He glances at the fireplace, at the faux fur rug on the carpet where he had taken and lavished attention on Hannibal after the first time he'd dressed in the lingerie. The whiplash must be severe for Hannibal. If Will keeps playing, maybe one day it'll be lethal. (Fear is its own monster, a beast Will doesn't even want to acknowledge lest he be forced to face it.)

When Hannibal returns, Will is standing on the rug gazing down at his bare feet. He straightens and turns to look at a now-dressed Hannibal. Hannibal isn't dressed in what he's usually been wearing, however. Hannibal has dressed smartly again, the armor back on. The only things that are missing are a pretentious pocket square, a suit jacket and dress shoes. Will looks him over. It's a blatant message for him. Hannibal isn't dressing down in his more casual wear, in soft cashmere sweaters or plain polo shirts. Will's lips twitch. He's unsure if he wants to smile or grimace at the display.

"You think my whiplash is going to eventually break your neck?" Will asks almost conversationally as he walks on over to Hannibal, head held up high.

* * *

Will looks almost exactly the same as he had when Hannibal had left him to get dressed. His shirt has been placed back on, and the comparison between them is quite jarring now. Hannibal stands there, watching Will. While Will is dressed only in his underclothes, Hannibal is dressed sharply, and he doesn't have to focus to find the thread of tension buzzing through the room like a live current. Hannibal wonders idly if he could merely reach a hand out and feel it thrum through his skin. He wonders if Will would feel it too. Is it merely static and tension, or is it a current that connects them both - that thrives _through_ them - in an endless cycle?

The air feels thick when Hannibal takes a step into the room. He goes no further; he doesn't need to. Will notices him quickly enough, and if he's surprised by Hannibal's clothing, he doesn't show it. If he's surprised by the _statement_ that Hannibal's clothing is making, he doesn't show it. Hannibal would be impressed were he not so irritated.

Will's lips twitch then. It's the only sign he makes. Hannibal stays where he is as Will finally steps in closer, his head held high, his chin lifted, and the message is almost blatant in return. It doesn't matter what Hannibal wears, or what power his clothing _should_ hold. Even dressed as he is, Will is still the man who holds the end of Hannibal's leash. He's still the one with the key to the muzzle. Hannibal's jaw flexes but he doesn't snarl or frown. He merely stands and imagines wielding the same power that Will has at his fingertips.

He imagines it because he doesn't dare touch it, though he knows it is within his grasp. Will holds the power between them because Hannibal will not give in and touch the power that has been his since the moment that Will had made it known. He won't _leave_.

"Perhaps." Hannibal's voice is conversational but strong. There's power in it, but he keeps it in check. His anger still burns but it only really touches at the corners of his eyes, flickering like fire in the moments between words, when he forgets to stay in control. "But a broken neck is not always fatal. It is one risk with killing in such a fashion. One might appear dead but only be paralyzed, or badly wounded. Recovery is possible. Rare, but possible." Hannibal's gaze slides over Will like a physical touch. "Do you intend to break my neck, Will? Would that please you? Not to kill, but perhaps to paralyze."

Hannibal glances down at himself, at the teal tie at his throat, the long, slate-grey line of his vest, and his shirt. When he looks back up at Will, it's only with his eyes.

"Have you not already done so?"

* * *

Oh, there's a power differential in what he's wearing compared to what Hannibal is currently dressed in. Will is barely clothed. Wrinkly undershirt, silk boxers, more skin revealed while Hannibal is tightly wrapped up in a fine suit. Still, Will doesn't look away. He meets Hannibal's eyes and if anything, his head is held high. Will does know who holds the leash and who is collared. It's his hand on the leash and it's his collar firmly affixed around Hannibal's throat. Hannibal can still snarl, Hannibal can still snap, but he's controlled.

Even so, Hannibal is not a shy, meek thing. Hannibal still readily meets his gaze and Will can see the hint of a cold anger that could erupt into flames at any moment. It's both beautiful and terrifying. He's added the accelerant. Will knows this. He's angered Hannibal. Upset him. Will isn't sure how that observation makes him feel. Obviously not too remorseful. Will hadn't apologized. Will had shooed Hannibal away and this... This is an attempt at conversation. Maybe.

Will is motionless as Hannibal replies. This reminds him of their former so-called therapy. Hannibal answers, sure, but he gives more than just an answer. He extrapolates and speaks about broken necks as a method of killing. Will still remembers when he'd fantasized about killing Hannibal. Squeezing that trigger, whistling for the ravenstag, brandishing a knife, pulling Hannibal close and tipping them over the edge.

While Will is stronger, he's never attempted to kill any of his chosen victims in such a way.

Hannibal asks him if he intends to break Hannibal's neck... Would it please him? Not to kill, but to paralyze... This line of questioning isn't safe. Will should leave. He knows it.

But he doesn't. He doesn't retreat.

Will is motionless as he watches Hannibal look down at himself, at the refined image that is presented, but they both know... They fucking know.

' _Have you not already done so?'_

Will's hand lifts and he jerks on Hannibal's tie before pulling it from the confines of the vest. "And you'd continue letting me if it meant that my hands were on your skin," Will states. "Wasn't enough that I chose you, was it? Couldn't let us succumb to wounds and die in that ocean."

And maybe Will won't ever forgive that decision.

* * *

At the heart of their interactions, domesticity is an illusion. They have never been docile creatures content to curl up with one another and bask in obscurity. They have never had the option of sheathing their claws, though they have perhaps made an effort to not dig them in so deeply. Yet despite their attempts to share space and domesticate themselves - at least in Hannibal's case - they are not docile house pets. They are feral and strong, with claws made for rending and fangs made for tearing. Hannibal can permit Will his muzzle, but he cannot pretend that he no longer has teeth, particularly when slighted.

This had been a slight, and as Hannibal stands before Will, his eyes glittering with something that would have sent others running for their knives or guns, Will stands there, his head held high, and stares him down with equal fervor. It is perhaps what attracts Hannibal to him the most even now, despite their faults, despite their shattered foundations and reckless behavior. Will won't bend.

A hand shoots out and grabs hold of the tie that Hannibal had taken such care to artfully tuck into the vest over top of it. Will jerks it and Hannibal takes a half-step forward, and he watches as Will pulls it from its resting place. Will shaking things up yet again, unsatisfied with the status quo, always desperate to be _other_. Hannibal's jaw tenses, and the worst of it is that Will isn't _wrong_.

Hannibal _would_ continue letting him break his neck if it meant Will's hands upon his skin. What other option is there in this desperate, conflicting uncertainty? Where Will can hold him down and take his pleasure from him, but not look him in the eye the next morning. Where Will can touch him tenderly while lace frames Hannibal's skin, but wrenches himself away from true conversation that might lead to vulnerability?

Hannibal breathes out once, harshly, a sound of would-be-contained frustration. He doesn't make any move to reclaim his tie from Will's hold. He hardly blinks.

"Handing food to a starving child makes no difference if you slaughter it before it has the chance to consume what you've given," Hannibal says flatly. "You chose to die with me. I chose to live with you. We have compromised quite elegantly, given this _purgatory_ in which we have ensnared ourselves. Where you will dine with me but not speak with me. Where you can only allow yourself what you desire if you first attach conditions."

* * *

He should retreat. This moment is tension-filled, rife with landmines for either one of them to step on. Will doesn't know if it's him that placed them or Hannibal. Probably him. It's usually him. Will doesn't know about the rules, either. Are they still in place? Do they still stand? Can they be relied on? Likely not.

Once-rigid rules have now been broken and bent... Ever since... Ever since Will begun to reach out to Hannibal, ever since Will let Hannibal closer. He'd been the one that had invited Hannibal to get into the bath with him. Will had challenged Hannibal and Hannibal hadn't backed down. Not with the bath and not with letting Will fuck him. Hannibal hadn't backed down when Will had called Hannibal his wife and suggested the lingerie and waxing. Where does it end?

Is it all a test between them? Will punishing and Hannibal tolerating. The dichotomy between how he's treated Hannibal threatens to become a schism and Will needs to backpedal before it slips between his fingers.

Control. Does Will truly have it anymore? He doesn't know. Hannibal allows it. Gives it to him? Like a gift, but gifts can be taken away.

Hannibal doesn't wrench himself away now and Hannibal doesn't take back the tie. There's a pathetic sliver of relief that crawls through him because Hannibal _stays_ and Will hates it.

Will had chosen for them to die, and Hannibal had answered his decision with the choice to live. Neither of them had consulted the other. While it's the truth, it's not exactly easy to hear. Will doesn't freely speak with Hannibal and Will does attach conditions. All true.

Will breaks eye contact with a short, mirthless chuckle.

"If we're in purgatory, then it's _you_ who has set the stage for me to act upon," he says. "You think I'm being cruel, Hannibal? I'm being unfair and unjust?" Now Will looks up. His tone is cool and he steps closer, his hand tight and creasing the tie. Their faces are almost touching. "Who modelled it for me? Who taught me?" Will's head tilts to the side.

* * *

Hannibal feels the tension between them like the thickening air before the sky shatters and lightning branches out to chase away the shadows. It's been a long time coming, and Hannibal cannot claim that this is the proper moment for it. How many times could he have fought back, could he have denied Will his commands, denied him his control? Even now Hannibal could shove back harder, could renounce Will's power. It's never been something that Will had wrestled from Hannibal's hands, but rather something that Hannibal had freely handed to him to do with as he'd pleased. And this is not the first time that Hannibal has considered reclaiming his gift - his offering. It's merely the first time he's felt lost enough to push back.

Hannibal is not used to being _wrong_. He had assumed through past experiences that it had been the lingerie that had drawn Will's favor, his kindness, and he does not feel himself cruel for wanting the key for this lock.

Will had bent him, had taken him roughly, had shoved his face into the mattress as if attempting to erase Hannibal's identity, his personality. Will had turned him into little more than a convenience. Yet when faced with Hannibal's departure, he had given pleasure like it had been violent, like it had been a concession. While Hannibal had not minded - while he would freely repeat every moment of it again to feel Will's touch and his favor, no matter how shallow - the way Will had reacted when faced with the lingerie had been such a marked shift. From denial and erasure to concern and validation. From rough shoves and biting nails to gentle touches and the brush of lips...

Hannibal feels no shame in trying to figure out the _reasoning_ behind such a dichotomy. Having Will deny him while he'd been _positive_ he might gain favor had been more frustrating than enraging, but the knowledge that he once again has no idea how to _handle_ Will Graham brings him nothing but a low, simmering, desperate frustration. Yet he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn and stride away.

Instead he stands, feeling the growing tension, and when Will's voice cuts through the silence, when his hand tightens and pulls the tie tight enough for Hannibal to feel the thrumming pulse in his throat, Hannibal's gaze is as cool as the one Will shoots him. The straps on the muzzle have begun to dangerously fray.

"You believe me cruel. You believe me unfair and unjust," he surmises, but there's a bite in his tone, something all too human. "I won't deny it. Every man holds within himself the capacity for every action, every emotion. Yet a _capacity_ is not the same as a choice, Will. You believed me cruel as my actions affected you. You believe me unfair and unjust, yet my actions were mostly an attempt to clean the grit from your eyes. If you are _choosing_ to emulate the man you believe me to be, it is a choice. And choices have reasons. Tell me, Will. Is this reciprocity? Is this punishment? Do you even _know_ what it is?"

* * *

Why would anything be simple or easy between them? From the moment Hannibal had been introduced to him Will's life had taken a turn for the worse. Turn after turn, complication after complication and Will had lost himself. It almost seems laughable that he'd believed he could ever escape Hannibal and start anew. After he'd been released from the BSHCI, he'd had his dogs back, his name cleared. Will could have left. He should have left. He should have packed up the shambles of his life and ran as far away from Hannibal as possible.

And then again after Hannibal had been locked up, another chance... Will hadn't even gotten that far away. Not even a day's drive for good Jack to find him and guilt trip him with photographs of perfect families torn apart. He'd also let Jack forward 'approved' letters from Hannibal too. Some break. Married and playing, yet still desperate for the tiniest of scraps.

Despite outward appearances, despite their assumed identities, this is not a happy ending and Will is beginning to wonder if playing loving partners out in public is beginning to get to him. Hadn't Hannibal claimed that he was playing pretend with his last family? That it had been a farce? Will can understand the arguments. Here, they lie out of necessity, these constructed roles allow them to blend in and they're both aware of the deception. Even so, Will can't help but wonder if, at times, either one of them have wanted that delusion. To get along, to be mild-mannered partners in love. Doting. Carefree. What does it feel like to be unburdened? To be free of shackles and specters? To be healed?

After the Red Dragon and their fall, Hannibal had diligently tended to both their wounds. On the outside their skin has mended. All that remains are the numerous scars that depict violence and victory. But on the inside? What festers beneath his skin? (Hurt, pain, anger, disappointment.)

An equally cool gaze from Hannibal meets his own. As Hannibal speaks, Will wants to scoff at the notion that Hannibal believes _most_ of his actions as had been an 'attempt to clean the grit from his eyes' _-_ like somehow it had been a noble quest for Hannibal to let his illness rage on and for Hannibal to push Margot at him and then end the possibility of a child. But on the top of the list of offenses, snatching away Abigail after her reveal. A beautiful show of cruelty. Divine punishment.

"Reciprocity? Punishment?" Will echoes back softly. "Both A and B, likely." Will bridges the short distance between their mouths and brushes a chaste kiss to Hannibal's lips. "You consider your past actions as _gracious_? Like you were doing me a favor? That's laughable," Will whispers harshly, still close, their mouths only a few inches apart. "Some actions were blatantly _childish,_ borne of jealousy and possessiveness. Sleeping with Alana? Volunteering me as a sperm donor to only promptly fuck over Margot after? Pointing Francis at Molly and Walter? Suppose it doesn't matter _now,_ does it? I'm here."

It's easier to bring up Hannibal's numerous past offenses, so Will does. It feels like debris he's desperately clinging to.

* * *

This is akin to two creatures slowly circling each other. While open hostility and aggression have not yet cracked their careful surface, the tension rising between them is beginning to make it feel like an eventuality, not a possibility. Hackles are spiked, fangs are bared, ears are pinned back, and eyes are narrowed as they engage in this pointless dance. Around and around the both of them go, spinning eternally, both pushing back, both trying to find comfort and control and meaning in a world built on revenge and denial.

They are both bitterness personified, jaws clenched. Hannibal does not fool himself as he watches the words register in Will's mind. This is not a conversation that either of them _should_ be having right now. Openness and honesty have been coated in anger and violence. He supposes there is no way for them to court honesty anymore. Not without this taint.

Even so, when Will's voice replies, when he echoes Hannibal's possibilities - reciprocity and punishment - so airily, Hannibal's lips thin. Then Will leans in, closing the laughably short distance between them, and Hannibal feels the brush of Will's kiss over his lips. It's chaste, and it is more effective than if Will had finally lashed out at him, had closed his fist and struck out against Hannibal's face.

Will has withheld kissing. He'd finally allowed it when he'd been tender, but before that, he'd never dared. Somehow, feeling it _now_ , light and chaste as it might be, makes something in Hannibal's stomach twist. He aches for more, but at the same time, he's not so desperate that he doesn't know what that had intended. So though it pains him, even before Will fully draws back, Hannibal turns his head away, denying the kiss. He'd never returned it, and he has no intent on doing so when Will might attempt to use it as a weapon. Bitterness churns within and Hannibal's jaw bunches at the force in which he clenches his teeth. Trust Will Graham to so effortlessly break him down into ruin like this.

He could dispute each accusation. Hannibal has the words with which he could do so, but there is such a thing as picking and choosing his battles. If nothing else, this has given Hannibal insight, though that insight is not exactly a surprise. Will has long been bitter and they have lain each other to ruin through deception and pettiness and sheer anger more times than it is beneficial to count.

_'I'm here.'_

"Are you?" Hannibal asks instead, letting Will's accusations rest. He doesn't acknowledge them, nor does he attempt to dissuade Will's position. Hannibal is no fool; he knows Will speaks the truth in at least a few areas. Yet as he replies, his voice is flat and toneless. Better that than angry.

"I would argue not. You've not been _here_ in your entirety since we slew the Dragon. You vacillate," Hannibal acknowledges with a casual tilt of his head, "some days you are more present than others, but it is always a shade, never the full picture. When you wish to punish me, you embody your cruelty, and you justify it by telling yourself that I modeled your actions for you, that you are blameless. Perhaps that you have no choice. When you wish comfort, when you're lonely and when you have an _excuse_ , you embody your need, swinging the pendulum far in the other direction. You scare yourself with emotion you don't want, and you retreat so deeply within yourself that it is again a single side of you. If you are _here_ , as you say, you are fractured, not whole. You're broken."

Hannibal lifts his chin, the tie pulling a little tighter around his throat. "You don't know what you want, do you?"

* * *

Here he is. Here they are. Will can't escape. He could try, but he knows he's been ruined for anyone else, he's been ruined for any semblance of a normal life. As fucked as they are, as messed up as this dynamic between them is, Will can't imagine _not_ being with Hannibal. The idea of Hannibal leaving him had practically set him into a fit and it had sent him to his knees forcing a blowjob on Hannibal. It then had him challenging Hannibal with the lingerie and waxing, with being his wife...

And now things are confusing and complicated, the once clear lines blurred and Will knows it's him that's done it.

Does airing out his grievances make him feel better? No. Hannibal is not repentant. There will be no apologies, no grovelling. As much as Will paints Hannibal as the villain - the man with the longer list of offenses - there are reasons for Hannibal to be bitter. Hannibal turns his head against the kiss and Will both wants to laugh at the attempt to deny him and become angry at the reaction.

A part of him longs to return to the beginning, to how things were weeks ago, when he felt steady and in control and each of them played their roles just fine. Will has fucking rocked the boat. He's the culprit. As Hannibal speaks, Will's grip on the tie does not relent. This moment is charged and Will doesn't back down, he doesn't back away to create space between them. Although uncertain and dangerous like venturing out on an frozen lake, Will wants to be here.

Vacillate. A fancy word for fluctuating, wavering and Hannibal isn't wrong. Will has been _physically_ here. They haven't gone a day without seeing each other, without sharing at least one meal together. But he's been mostly distant and then it's been an over-indulgence of Hannibal, like a binge. They've only kissed once before and it had been a desperate thing, like Hannibal's mouth held vital oxygen and Will was starved for it. He'd touched Hannibal like something precious, but only after Hannibal had went so very far for him, after Hannibal had waxed and worn lingerie and yet Will is malcontent. He's not secure in this.

Hannibal calls him fractured. Not whole. _Broken_. It reminds him of a morning so many years ago that Hannibal referenced how Jack saw him - the fragile little teacup, the finest china... Something burns through Will. It feels like a fast acting poison and his own jaw clenches at the sight of Hannibal lifting his chin. Hannibal is not the anti-venom. Hannibal is no healer right now. Hannibal is as close to angry as Will has seen him.

_'You don't know what you want, do you?'_

Will's other hand snaps up and buries into soft hair, gripping as he yanks Hannibal closer by the tie. He's pretty sure it's only surprise that has him successfully forcing his mouth over Hannibal's and Will kisses rough and hungry. His nails digging into Hannibal's scalp like shards as he deliberately presses his body into Hannibal.

It's violence that he needs, not tenderness. How could he have been so blind?

* * *

Hannibal's words are not smart. They are not carefully calculated to draw out the most favorable response. Though it pains him to admit it, even to himself, he is being antagonistic. There is bitterness in his words, if not in his voice, and his posture and tone have both been carefully calculated to keep Will at a distance, to laud his control in the face of Will's impulsiveness. Like this, they are still circling, and while Will had lashed out with the first blow - that farce of a kiss - Hannibal's response is his rejoinder.

In the back of his mind, he's aware that this will spell ruin, and yet there's an undeniable tension that is so thick between them that Hannibal does not doubt that it will end in violence in one way or another. Though he can cut through a man's sternum with a steady, unhurried pulse, he can feel his heart beating quicker now despite his deceptive calm. Yet there is a burning anger that flickers over his eyes, lapping like flame at the edge of the ties on the muzzle that keep him voluntarily chained.

Will must see it, and Hannibal is not sure _what_ he is expecting when he issues that final taunt - the lift of his chin - but it is not what Will's response is.

It's shock alone that doesn't have Hannibal wrenching back when Will's hand shoots out. He tenses, alarm ringing belatedly, for he'd been so distracted by his own frustration that he'd failed to notice Will's muscles tensing. Fingers grab and _wrench_ in his hair, and the spike of pain is sharp but easy to ignore. He's gearing up to respond, to break Will's hold, to throw him off (as Hannibal doesn't wish to strike Will down, regardless of his anger) when those fingers in his hair tighten and _pull_ , and Will practically lunges for his lips.

The kiss is too forceful to pull away from, and it tears over Hannibal's senses like the lash of claws. It's violent and hungry, nails biting into his scalp, the scent of his own blood welling between them. Hannibal feels Will's teeth catch on his lip, yet only feels Will kiss harder in response to the undeniable taste of blood. Indignation and bitterness spike in Hannibal like wildfire. His calm facade shatters on the floor. He'd pulled away when Will had kissed him before; how _dare_ Will push? How _dare_ he take like a slavering beast?

Hannibal's hands are already on Will's shoulders by the time Will presses in close to him. He's bunching his muscles, readying a shove to throw Will back when he feels Will press up against the length of Hannibal's body. At first he believes it to be nothing more than an attempt to press his advantage, and Hannibal's irritation only grows. But then...

Then he feels the press of Will's arousal into his hip. Hannibal's disgust falters and confusion quickly takes its place. He is caught as Will's teeth bite and his hands grip, and his body presses. For a long few seconds, Hannibal's judgment is clouded by bitterness and confusion.

Then understanding dawns. Heat floods Hannibal's body. Will's kiss is no longer a taunt. His nails are no longer to enrage. His force is no longer to degrade. This is not to punish. This is a plea in a language spoken only by two - by _them_. It's a savage howl past blood blackened by the moonlight. It's a visceral, rending snarl as fangs rip and tear and teeth clash.

Hannibal could be mistaken. This could simply be petulance, could simply be rage and bitterness. But as he feels the cut of Will's nails and tastes his own blood, he doubts it.

The muzzle snaps, its bloodied leather falling away to lay limply on the ground, and Hannibal _lunges_.

Will is a strong man, his muscles tight, his center of gravity low, but Hannibal is stronger. He blocks out the pain of Will's fingers twisting in his hair as he surges ahead, jamming one arm up between them to strike across Will's chest as he shoves him back. They go together, Hannibal forcing, and Will struggling with a a bloodied snarl that Hannibal meets with a sudden equal fervor. His blood stains their lips, but reciprocity holds an edge that Hannibal ensures Will feels. His teeth catch deliberately on Will's lower lip, splitting skin, running Will's saliva red to mix with his own. And as Hannibal bites, he forces Will back against the wall with a slam hard enough that the decorative plates and vases and figurines on a nearby shelf wobble precariously.

Hannibal crowds up into Will's personal space, and one hand comes to Will's wrist with a grip so punishing that Hannibal feels the tendons strain. He allows Will the grip in his hair, but he forcibly pries Will's other hand away from his tie, holding it between them as Hannibal slots his thigh between Will's legs.

"It appears you might have made up your mind," Hannibal says in a bloody whisper against Will's lips.

* * *

No, Will doesn't know what he wants, at least not an overarching want. His wants sway back and forth like a metronome. One second it's control and cruelty, the next it's care and doubt. It's difficult to live within such a dichotomy and wherein lies the truth? Hannibal hadn't been wrong. These are but shades of Will, angles of himself. Will wants to not feel tormented, but these are shackles he's pretty sure he's clasped onto himself.

But this - this right now - practically surging at Hannibal and forcing him into a kiss... this feels more like himself than he has in weeks, possibly even months. He doesn't kiss to attack. It's not a taunt nor a tease. It may be rough, his teeth nipping hard enough to break skin, but this isn't a punishment either. His aim is not to hurt Hannibal. It feels like all his frustration has reached a tipping point and _want_ surges through him.

Doing is necessary. Taking is necessary. Feeling is necessary. So Will does all three and he's not deluded in thinking that this is particularly a wise course of action to take. This doesn't fix anything. Wounds still exist and fester, the poison burns. But this heated moment is taking a turn and feels visceral and raw, like it had on the bluff and maybe this is what's been missing. Maybe it's time to shred the constructed composure and to let loose and howl. Maybe this is another chrysalis to fight his way out of. Another becoming just waiting for him.

Will can feel the tension in Hannibal's body, the resistance and the urge ramping up to push Hannibal to act. The action? Stopping this and pushing him away. But Will doesn't stop. Will doesn't try and explain himself. There are no words that come to mind. He's tired of words, of taunts and questions. Instead, he presses in close. He can feel his erection brush against Hannibal but Will doesn't think anything of it. He tastes copper and he remembers that he's bitten off flesh - a piece of Cordell's cheek to be specific.

It's on that thought that Hannibal responds and Will is left overpowered (but not as badly as he once would have been). Hannibal pushes him back but it's not to end this, no. Hannibal attacks his mouth and those sharp teeth that have ripped out a throat, split the skin on his lower lip. Will hisses, but he doesn't pull away from the kiss. His hand stays gripping at soft hair and he's shoved into the near wall with a force that's like a shot of danger and thrill being injected into him. His pulse skyrockets. The hand holding the tie is extracted and Hannibal's grip is unyielding on his wrist. It will bruise but Will doesn't care. There's real strength here as Hannibal meets his exigency.

It's when a thigh pushes in between his legs and against his dick that Will feels a distinctive pang of arousal.

_'It appears you might have made up your mind.'_

Will licks at his bloody lip. "Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?" He struggles against Hannibal's hold, but Will doesn't say no and he doesn't ask to be let go.

* * *

They can both kill a grown man with their bare hands. They can both use their teeth for brutality. This is not the all-encompassing need that had washed over them the first time that Will had kissed him properly. This is not care and desire and a kiss so deep and breathless that it had been enough to tilt their world on its axis. Yet that does not mean that there isn't need here.

Hadn't Hannibal just finished accusing Will of two opposing sides? Of care and cruelty? Laying Will on the table and kissing his scar had been care - care eventually denied to him, granted - but while Hannibal is still no closer to understanding _why_ Will had so quickly shut down Hannibal's attempts at evening the ground between them, the sudden spike of violence makes sense.

And maybe it's not _just_ Hannibal understanding. Maybe it's an outlet for him as much as it is for Will. There is no need for Hannibal to bite back just as viciously, no need to taste Will's blood upon his lips. There is no need to force Will back against the wall, his shoulders striking it so hard that the decor protests. Except there _is_ a reason. It is merely not one that Hannibal has permitted himself since that night on the bluff.

Despite Hannibal's best attempts, Will's dismissal and antagonism and Hannibal's frustration and loss have culminated into one feeling: Anger. And it is _anger_ that rips the muzzle free, anger that bites to bleed. But it is violence - his own, and the powerful wrench of Will's fingers in his hair and the challenge in his eyes - that makes Hannibal throw him back like that.

He can feel Will's pulse beating a quick tempo against his hand, and Hannibal is not immune to the visceral thrill of fighting Will back against the wall. Hannibal is stronger, but Will can still kill with his hands. He can strike out and break bone now more often than not, and his power has only grown under Hannibal's instruction. Feeling the fruits of Hannibal's labor, feeling the power and the challenge is invigorating, like a grounded eagle spreading its wings after months of recovery, only to beat the air with powerful strikes and soar.

There is a distant whisper of concern in Hannibal's mind, that losing control as he has will only shatter this unsteady truce that has been building between them for months. Yet as he crowds Will against the wall and forces him back despite his inventive struggling, Hannibal hears no dismissal. He hears no demand to stop, no plea. Instead there's a bitten-out taunt and Will's struggles renew, but he isn't struggling to leave or get away. He's merely struggling to say he has.

The knowledge tastes like blood on the back of Hannibal's tongue, thick and coppery. He understands what has been left unsaid. His muscles burn as he forces Will's struggling arm back against the wall, shoving it up high to pin above his head. Hannibal is not unaffected; it is not _easy_ to force Will back, as while Hannibal is stronger, Will is not weak, and Hannibal is left breathless with the attempt to subdue Will. He struggles like he's serious, but never makes any move to escape. The fingers in his hair twist cruelly but Will never presses his advantage. So when Will's answering taunt breaks through the haze in Hannibal's mind, something dark and base and _angry_ slides over Hannibal's senses like an eclipse.

"I'll give you what you're too ashamed to ask me for out loud," Hannibal breathes, bitterness cutting the words, but understanding simmering under the surface. He closes the distance between them again and kisses him, and it is not chaste or gentle or even caring at its surface. It is the violence that Will craves - the violence that they _both_ crave - and it burns like fire under their skin.

Reciprocity and punishment, Will had said. Hannibal's thigh presses harder between Will's legs, and he reaches up, grabbing at Will's other wrist and squeezing painfully to free Will's cruel fingers from his hair. It is not an easy task to fight Will's other hand up above his head; Hannibal feels sweat prickling along his skin when he finally manages to force Will's arms above his head, and then he kisses him harder, biting and bloody, the both of them a growing mess. Will had claimed reciprocity and punishment and Hannibal has to wonder if that is precisely what Will wants from him.

* * *

The shove against the wall has Will's back and shoulder actually aching. It's nothing serious, nothing has been wrenched, but this is akin to playing with fire. This is dangerous. They're both violent men with the capability to grievously harm, to kill. They've both killed, and although Hannibal's number far surpasses Will, Will knows he's not the same man that he used to be. Will has packed on extra muscle and Hannibal has expanded Will's vocabulary of violence. 

Perhaps more pressing is the issue that Hannibal _is_ actually angry. This is apparently the tipping point. Will has walked Hannibal to the edge, hand-in-hand, or perhaps this is another push and Will's attempt to let destruction claim them once again.

No, no. Surely Hannibal wouldn't allow this to get out of hand. Will's lip may be bleeding, this may be a physical altercation, but Will doesn't believe that this will end in an sort of escape for him. The living go on living, the dead remain dead, and all among them are ghosts and pitfalls, traps waiting to be triggered. And Will wonders if it's the lack of fear that incites him. He knows Hannibal won't kill him. He's seen how far Hannibal is willing to go for him, so is there anything stopping him from being reckless now?

This isn't advisable and yet here they are, Hannibal forcing him back against the wall and one wrist is lifted above his head. The insinuation of sexual violence is here, but Will isn't afraid, for when you love the devil, what is there to fear? Hannibal's hair is dishevelled, his vest wrinkled, the tie freed, and Will delights in the image.

The answer he receives to his taunt has a goosebumps popping up on his skin. Will's own answer doesn't matter for Hannibal is surging forward and claiming his mouth again. It seems so strange that, for all that has passed between them, fucking, fingering, sucking, that they've barely kissed. It's like they're making up for it now.

Will doesn't try and wrest control back in the kiss, but he's not gentle. The cut on his lip stings. His mouth feels swollen from Hannibal's onslaught, but he knows he's not alone. Hannibal's thigh shifts purposefully and Will grunts, pushing into the muscle, seeking any friction he can get. Desperation tastes bitter, but _need_ dominates all. Hannibal fights to extract his hand from Hannibal's hair, and Will finds himself with both arms above his head and Hannibal devouring him.

Hannibal's words, ' _I'll give you what you're too ashamed to ask me for out loud'_ are both promise and threat.

Questions and concerns and practicality have no place in this moment. Will only fights back enough to feel Hannibal's strength and he's not quiet or meek as Hannibal bites and licks. Will gives it back just as roughly. It's nothing playful, nothing sweet. It's a very real visceral hunger that clouds their judgment and right now Will feels ravished. His dick is fully hard and he's more or less rutting against Hannibal's thigh like a dog. Will turns his head sharply to break the kiss with a gasp, his lips tingling.

"Going to give it to me, Hannibal?" Will taunts, his voice thick with arousal and emotion. "Going to fuck me? Make me feel it? Make me feel _you_?"

* * *

Gone are concerns over Will's strength and past injuries. Gone are concerns over what this will do between them, for Hannibal now knows that _inaction_ is what will ruin the both of them. There is no precedence for this; there is no telling what this will do to them in the end. All he knows is that he will not leave Will like this, that he will push until they're both ruined, and that Will Graham is once again the harbinger of change.

Will fights and struggles, but he doesn't struggle enough to wrench free. Hannibal doesn't doubt that he could were he so inclined. He struggles enough to feel it, to 'know' that Hannibal has him secured, and Hannibal is not blind to the bitter anger and arousal coursing through his veins like a potent venom. He bites, he bleeds, and he tastes Will's blood like nothing else could possibly sate him. And when Will finally turns his head to break the kiss, his arousal evident in each selfish rut of his hips against Hannibal's thigh, Hannibal only holds him tighter, only pins his arms up higher against the wall.

The words Will speaks are a bloodied taunt, his lips stained, his eyes bright with excitement and dark with challenge. Hannibal's grip tightens until he feels tendons complain under his hands, sees the tips of Will's fingers begin to appear darker with lack of circulation. Months ago he wouldn't have dared to even court this thought, but as he breathes in the potent scent of blood and arousal and feels the frustration and understanding war with bitterness and desperation, he knows he won't stop. Will Graham has cast him to ruin and Hannibal wonders if his aim had been to dash Hannibal against the rocks.

He doesn't answer verbally. Instead Hannibal meets Will's eyes for one long breath. Then he moves, turning Will with single-minded intent as he shoves him against the wall, face-first. Hannibal lets his wrists go and instead presses him to the wall with a hand just below Will's neck. He reaches down with his other hand, hooking fingers into the waistband of Will's silk boxers and pulling them down, baring skin Hannibal had gazed upon reverently only minutes before. He can still see the hint of wetness between Will's cheeks and Hannibal (rather rudely) kicks Will's legs spread, forcing him against the wall as his fingers suddenly dip back in, pressing against Will's wet hole before two slide back in deeply, with no preamble. Hannibal's movements are tighter and clinical.

"Had you but asked, this would not have been necessary," he says, his voice just as tight as his actions. "Whatever the fallout from this might be, I will not share the blame equally."

* * *

Hannibal meets his eyes and Will wonders what Hannibal sees. All reckless and desperate, an animal caught in a trap that would gnaw its own leg off to escape? This isn't how Will wants to be. This isn't sustainable, but he hasn't exactly been doing well as of late. If Will could rewind the past few weeks he would. He knows it's a cowardly thing to do, a cowardly thing to _want_ , to yearn for the simpler times of cruel control and withholding, but it had been _safe_. Will had felt safe and contained, now it feels like his skin is a fragile casing and it could split at any moment and his viscera will spill out. Maybe he doesn't even need the rocks to brain himself.

Hannibal doesn't treat him gently. Will isn't injured and recovering. He can take it. He's frenzied and right now Hannibal is rising to the challenge. The thought, the horrible fucking thought if Hannibal were to simply leave this undoubtedly precarious situation... Will doesn't think he could cope with it. He wouldn't let Hannibal turn away and walk to his bedroom. He wouldn't let Hannibal go into the city for some errand.

Thankfully Will doesn't need to face that. His lips are bloody and so are Hannibal's. It's hard to know if he's bitten Hannibal to bleed or if it's only his blood. Will likes the thought of their blood mixing but he has no time to think on it because Hannibal is twisting him and shoving him into the wall face-first. Will grunts, more out of surprise than anything else as he turns his head to the side, his cheek pressed against the wall. Undoubtedly some blood has gotten onto the paint and Will hopes it bothers Hannibal later when he sees it - it's evidence of this altercation. His now-freed hands come to brace himself on the wall, palms against the wall by his head. Hannibal's hand is below his neck, pressing firmly.

The threat of this situation doesn't faze him. He knows where this is leading and it's confirmed when Hannibal's other hand yanks his boxers down. His legs are forcibly spread by Hannibal and Will has no time to prepare himself for fingers to be re-introduced to his still-wet hole as they push in. Will's eyes close tightly as he trembles, attempting to stop clenching around the intrusion. It's a strange mix of sensation and indignation that rise up within Will.

The fingering is not exactly pleasurable, but Will can't deny that a part of him _is_ aroused by the situation. He knows some people are into this kind of thing, so maybe he's just one of them. Will takes a deep breath, relaxing. Will's cock is trapped against the wall but he pays it no mind. Hannibal's inciting words cause Will to growl.

"I know you want this," Will grits out and he pushes back on Hannibal's fingers, willing his body to stretch.

* * *

Bitterness is like the after-bite of a strong wine on the back of Hannibal's tongue, the taste of blood rich on his lips as he presses his fingers back into the gripping heat he had so carefully prepared before. The lubrication has not dried where it counts, though it is slightly tacky under Hannibal's touch. Thankfully he had used a fair bit in an attempt to save Will from discomfort, and it takes him no time to coat his fingers anew by dipping them into Will's body. The tight clench of Will's muscles send signals of arousal and desire through him like nails through his flesh, sharp and damning and all the worse because he had desired this so delicately before.

Even so, Hannibal does not regret the blood on his lips. He does not temper his touch, forcing his fingers in deep and silently reveling in the way Will's eyes close tightly as if in pain, yet the scent of his arousal only spikes. He is truly a man hungry for violence, for _force._ Hannibal would not dare to do this were he not sure, and yet even as he spreads his fingers and feels Will's muscles relax, he knows that he is not alone in it. For once, it seems, he and Will are on the same page. Will's body would not be relaxing were that not the case, and Will's voice is like the punch of a bullet through flesh as he taunts and challenges anew.

"You are aware of what I have wanted, and how _badly_ I have wanted," Hannibal nearly-hisses back, his breath stirring the soft hairs that curl down around Will's ear. As Will pushes back, Hannibal spreads his fingers and works him open, not aiming for pain, but not the gentle, careful stretch from before. "Yet you are cruel one moment and afraid the next. Indecisiveness is not sustainable. I am willing to allow you control, but I will not allow you _complacency_ , Will. If you do not deserve it, I will not grant it."

They both know Will's power has only existed because Hannibal had _allowed_ it. Even now, he's not certain he will deny it after this. _This_ is too chaotic for informed decision.

Hannibal presses Will harder against the wall, forcing his legs to spread, then the sound of ripping stitches of Will's boxer protests over the wet, slick sounds of Hannibal's fingers working Will open. Hannibal doesn't seem to notice, and when he can comfortably spread his fingers in Will's heat, Hannibal pauses, then affords him the courtesy of a third finger, though not the courtesy of patience in opening Will up. He presses deeper, holds Will down, and slides his three fingers in without permission or hesitation. Hannibal's pulse pounds in his ears, arousal and anger and a cacophony of other emotions and sensations burning within. He wets his lips.

"Do you want me to hurt you, Will? To treat you as you treated me? Reciprocity?"

* * *

Will wonders if there will be enough lube to see this act through from start to finish. He may have been somewhat rushed the first time he'd fucked Hannibal, but he hadn't skimped on the lubricant at least. Hannibal may be angry, but Will doesn't think he'd seriously harm him during this. It doesn't feel dry at least and he can still hear the slight squelch of the lube as Hannibal's fingers push into him, seeking to stretch him in preparation for Hannibal's cock.

Christ, is he really going to let Hannibal fuck him?

Yes.

It doesn't feel that audacious. It doesn't feel that scandalous. It's inevitable, like everything has led them to this point where teeth clash and hands roughly push and Hannibal finally _takes_ and answers Will's fury. God, it's somehow better and worse being pushed against the wall and fingered. The intimacy had been staggering in the kitchen, Hannibal's tongue and mouth pressing their apology and love into his scar. Like this, it would take effort to see Hannibal. Will would have to look over his shoulder to attempt to see, but does Will _want_ to see this?

He doesn't open his eyes and he doesn't look back. Will's fingers curl into fists as Hannibal replies, his mouth close to his neck. Will can feel Hannibal's breath. It's not easy to hear Hannibal call him out, to mention the pendulum swinging between cruel and afraid, the distressing amount of indecision that seems to plague him. Will clenches his jaw, breathing sharply through his nostrils. He has nothing to say to Hannibal's threat - that if he doesn't deserve control, Hannibal will not grant it.

A close-mouthed groan is heard when Hannibal presses him harder against the wall, his legs being forced to spread more. After a few more thrusts, another finger is added and it has Will wincing at the slight burn of it. It's not painful per se, but it is uncomfortable as obviously his body is not used to it. But Will doesn't struggle to free himself and he doesn't ask for it to stop. Unlike the somewhat disastrous attempt in the kitchen, Will isn't going to back out of this engagement.

' _Do you want me to hurt, Will? To treat you as you treated me? Reciprocity?'_

This has a half-sob, half-chuckle escaping Will's mouth. "Haven't you already hurt me?" Will thrusts his hips back harder onto Hannibal's fingers. "Why stop now? Why stop ever?" Will swallows down the edge of hysteria. He's not going to lose it here. His hands smooth out against the wall.

* * *

Despite Hannibal's anger, despite his frustration, there still exists understanding. Yet for the moment he has closed his mind off to thoughts of _after_. He wishes this to be simple even though it isn't, wishes this to be sexual and violent in the way Will keeps pushing for, as this is not merely Hannibal's cruelty, but Will's desire for it. Just as Hannibal would welcome Will's attempt to be rough once more, even dismissively as he had been before (if he had earned it) Hannibal can feel Will's desire in each shudder of his body, in each tight groan, regardless of how desperately Will tries to rein himself in.

Three fingers is likely too much, too soon, yet Will's body adjusts for him, struggling to take it only for as long as it takes for the sting to die down. Hannibal sees Will wince, knows this is not comfortable. Yet he knows that Will would not thank him for being gentle right now. Besides, if Hannibal allows himself to be honest, he must admit that there is a side of him that _likes_ hurting Will, likes seeing his expression pinch and come to life, likes seeing the conflicting desires etched so plainly across his face.

Will's response is not simple. It sends a complicated twist through Hannibal's chest, makes him grit his teeth, but he does not argue. Instead he lets Will push back against his fingers, lets him lead for a moment before Hannibal shoves Will harder against the wall and takes over again, thrusting his fingers in clinically and working Will open to a point where Hannibal feels confident that he will not do damage. It will sting, and yet given Will's voraciousness in this endeavor, Hannibal suspects he would not accept anything less right now.

Yet despite Hannibal's anger, there are things he will not do. He casts a sidelong glance to the kitchen table not too far away - just in the other room - and he makes his decision.

"Stay where you are," Hannibal warns, though does not clarify what he will do if Will doesn't comply.

Abruptly his fingers are gone, leaving Will's hole wet and slightly swollen and open. Hannibal's hand leaves Will's back after a harder shove. It takes Hannibal only seconds to retrieve the bottle of lubrication and then he's back, his forearm returning to Will's back in order to keep him pinned as he uncaps the bottle. Yet before he tilts it to pour some out, Hannibal works the button and zipper of his fly down, the sound overly-loud in the room, punctuating intent so clearly. Hannibal doesn't remove his slacks, doesn't do more than ease his cock out of its confines. It's impersonal, perhaps his own protest, but it hardly matters as he pours some of the lubricant out onto his fingers and uses them once more to press inside of Will, slicking his hole so thoroughly that Hannibal feels it dripping along his fingers.

It takes him no time to slick his own cock, to ensure he will not seriously injure Will, but Hannibal doesn't spare the time to speak with him. Instead he steps in closer, forcing Will's legs wider, and then reaches down, wrapping his hand around himself as he presses the head of his cock to Will's hole, the lube dripping to the ground without care.

"One chance," Hannibal tells him, his voice low. He doesn't clarify what he's warning Will for.


	9. Shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No thought is needed. Will's response is quick. "There's never been any _chances_ with you," Will answers in a murmur. "Been caught in your gaze, stuck in your web... It's time to feast, Hannibal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°
> 
>  **Merry:** Wow, here we are at the end! Thanks to the handful of readers that have left comments and been engaged with this story. I know it's not a typically happy or easy post-fall exploration to drudge through, but it was fun to dabble in a bit 'o darker!Will.
> 
>  **Coffee:** Thanks so much to everyone for sticking with us over the course of this fic! Merry and I appreciate each and every one of you so much. We'll see you in the next one!

This love is far too sharp, a scalpel that's slipped and nicked them. They've already scarred each other, their skin mending, scar tissue being formed and the planes of their bodies no longer smooth. Resilient creatures, they are. Stretched, compressed, bent, but snapping back like an elastic band. Will only hopes that this doesn't break them. After everything, wouldn't it be horrible to break _now_?

This, perhaps, has the capability to do it. He remembers Hannibal claiming to not share the blame equally from this fallout, but when has that ever stopped Will? Self-preservation, logic... These are cast aside while reckless abandon is ushered in and Hannibal steps up to play the part admirably.

Maybe this is the monster Will has been waiting for. Three fingers in, Hannibal is not especially _kind_ while preparing him, nor is he cruel. Hannibal doesn't allow him to push back. Control will not be shared and Will thinks the misery and heat are complimentary colors.

Will thinks he could stop this, still. This is not truly an act of sexual violence perpetrated against him. Red, yellow, green... Stop lights for safewords. He remembers giving Hannibal _Thistle,_ Will's chosen safeword. Safe... Safe, safe? It seems laughable to think about being safe with Hannibal Lecter, but hasn't Will been feeling safe? Safe enough to kill, at least. His body has healed from the last man, the scratches faded, his knuckles unswollen. Any bruises he has now will be from Hannibal. 

As if he's a dog, he's told to stay. Will stays. The emptiness in his ass is still oddly disconcerting when Hannibal leaves. Will feels raw and sore, like a bruise being consistently rubbed. Will he change colors, too?

And then Hannibal's back with what is likely lube and once more a forearm is pressed to his back. Hannibal's zipper is dragged down and for a second Will wonders if Hannibal will undress, or just whip his cock out.

It's the latter and Will thinks it's probably a bad sign. Hannibal cares for his clothing, but apparently being quick and reckless is being prioritized. Extremely slick fingers find their way inside before they're quickly removed. Will feels slightly dizzy, like it's a struggle to find his equilibrium. His legs are forced to spread wider and then Hannibal's own wet cockhead is pushed against his hole, but doesn't press inside. Nerves flare, but there's a note of thrill present within Will. Another cliff dive, perhaps?

_'One chance.'_

No thought is needed. Will's response is quick. "There's never been any _chances_ with you," Will answers in a murmur. "Been caught in your gaze, stuck in your web... It's time to feast, Hannibal."

* * *

One chance, and then it's done. No going back to what they were, to how they had behaved before, at least not without the both of them aware of the act. One chance to keep the ball in Will's court, to let him decide not to court violence and danger, to _not_ give into something like this. Hannibal offers that chance like a rope slicked with oil, aware that Will is damned if he does and damned if he doesn't in certain ways. And yet while Hannibal is expecting Will to take his time, he is left surprised when Will answers immediately. His voice is not strong, barely a murmur, but bitterness and heat and desire curl like smoke under his skin. 

He feasts.

Despite the flare of violence and roughness between them, despite the bruises that will bleed onto Will's skin and the danger in each breath between them, Hannibal does not merely thrust into Will. Bitterness might feel like anger under his skin, but when Hannibal's hand braces itself around his cock as he begins to press in Will's body, he goes slowly. The first touch of heat is almost more bitter, as Hannibal had once considered a different outcome, had imagined passion and mutual understanding, had imagined Will's gasps like the swell of an orchestra and his pleasure as the crescendo. 

Yet as he slowly presses in, Will's body fighting him as much as it can, Hannibal knows that this will forever be something _else_. Not tainted, perhaps, but certainly not what he had imagined. Though as the heat of Will's body envelops him bit by bit, Hannibal has to wonder if this isn't the only way it could have happened. Even Steven.

His hand presses Will to the wall as Hannibal leans down, his forehead almost resting against Will's shoulder as he nudges his cock inside. Each millimeter feels like something new, and Will's response is thrilling in a way it shouldn't be. It takes Hannibal telling him to relax to make Will follow suit, his breathing ragged, his lips parted in a way that practically screams of intensity and sensation. And when the head of Hannibal's cock finally slides in and he feels the aching tightness of Will's body locked around him, the sound he makes is akin to a growl.

"How fully we have ensnared one another," Hannibal breathes into the back of Will's neck, and his lips finally press to warm skin. It is the only tenderness he will allow, and as Will shifts against him, Hannibal drops his hands to Will's hips and slowly presses in deeper. He works his way in with small, short thrusts that steadily go deeper and deeper until Will's heat is like a vice grip of pleasure around his cock. Hannibal's eyes slide closed and he grips Will's hips so tightly that he'll undoubtedly be bruised for weeks. 

"Is _this_ what you wanted, Will? What you _needed?_ "

* * *

Will doesn't take the chance, he doesn't take the out, but he probably should. His life has been ruled by _should's,_ though. He _should_ have made many different decisions, taken different routes, but he hadn't. He'd played and payed. He'd loved and lost. He'd been the perfect bait. Too engaging to ever ignore, too remarkable to forget. No, no, no, Hannibal had been hooked by him and the hooks had gotten in deep, hadn't they? Look at them now.

There is no going back. Maybe their life together is a series of repeated outcomes, one cliff after another, and they'll continue falling while fucking embracing because why wouldn't they?

Hannibal wants him, but Hannibal likely doesn't want him like _this._ Well, too bad. 

Hannibal isn't aggressive when he pushes in and underneath the recklessness, Will thinks there exists an ounce of relief. It's still not easy nor is it comfortable. The widest part to fit is the damn tip and that's what is being pushed in first. His body resists, muscles tensing, clenching in a protest Will doesn't want to allow. 

Will doesn't say Red. He doesn't blurt out Thistle. Hannibal's hand holds him against the wall and as Hannibal's forehead rests against his shoulder, Will flinches as Hannibal's cockhead slowly - fucking finally - breaches him and pushes in. A strange sound follows: a growl from Hannibal. Will doesn't know what to do with it. He thinks he likes it, but what does that mean, if anything?

Hannibal speaks of them ensnaring each other and Will is silent as a tender kiss is brushed against sweaty skin. Will shakes and he doesn't know if it's a movement to _stop_ the kiss or because of it. Hands come to his hips to hold him and Will feels contained. Or is it restrained? He doesn't know and it doesn't matter because Hannibal edges further into him and it's distinctly uncomfortable and overwhelming. It's pressure and fullness and it dominates his senses. Hannibal grasps him tightly and Will groans with the intensity as he takes shuddering breaths in.

_'Is **this** what you wanted, Will? What you **needed**?'_

Will scratches at the wall and he purposefully pushes back against Hannibal's cock. 

"God, yes," Will gasps out, voice cracking. His fingers curl into fists and Will feels wild and desperate and he struggles just to feel how it hurts, to feel Hannibal not let him go. Because Hannibal doesn't let go and Will knows, he fucking knows, that he never wants that to change.

* * *

This is a very particular rabbit's hole to fall down, and yet Hannibal knows that despite his bitterness and anger, despite his confusion and exasperation and the pounding desire to _understand_ , he would not change this man. Will Graham is a force of nature, a reckless storm, demolishing and laying waste to his own countryside and despite the anger Hannibal feels at the destruction, he can only marvel even now at the beauty of Will's violence. Whether it be a biting comment, denying Hannibal this single test, or Will's knuckles bloodied and split from the man he'd beaten into a corpse, Hannibal's fervor and favor have not waned. He doubts they ever will, and he doesn't know how he feels about it.

What he does know is that Will's body is a heat so welcoming and tight that it's almost absolution. Hannibal feels the twist of over-sensitivity, feels the discomfort of _how_ tight Will is even now, but the heat of his body is blazing and the way sweat almost immediately breaks out on Will's skin is a feast for the senses. Hannibal can smell the stress and pain, but under it he can scent the desperation and the need. They have never been merely one-sided. There have always been two. Love and Indifference, knowledge and power, pain and pleasure. Their relationship has always been built on the dichotomy, and that does not fade even now.

Will pushing back against him has a rough, almost shattered sound escaping Hannibal's throat. It's a soft ' _ah_ ' that sounds more like gravel over glass, like a snarl pressed delicately against Will's nape. Hannibal shudders at the wave of sensation, aches to feel more of it, and so he does. He rocks his hips as he sinks deeper into Will's heat, and when Will begins to twist - struggling, yet not to escape - Hannibal muffles a low, rough sound against his shoulder and only grips his hips tighter. Will's hips will wear his bruises deeply. 

Hannibal still keeps him pinned, still keeps him contained. He lets Will's violent energy lash out against the wall. Nails claw into the paint on the wall instead of Hannibal's skin, and Will's voice breaks on pleasure instead of a scream. Hannibal keeps going until he feels the press of Will's skin against his hips, and only then does Hannibal grind his teeth and press in that much deeper. 

He gives them both a short period of time to adjust. Will, for the discomfort and overwhelming sensation of being so connected to another person whilst being so at his mercy, and Hannibal, for the sharp sensation and the connection so bitterly won. Then he moves, drawing his hips back and pressing back in, slow at first, then a little quicker. 

It's likely too soon, but Hannibal knows that Will wants this. His teeth find Will's neck, biting gently at first, then harder. When he draws back, Will's skin is pink. 

"Yes, _what_ , Will? I'd like you to speak in full sentences. If you're able."

* * *

The consequences - the fallout from this - they all can be damned. Will is living in this moment, in this singular demanding moment that feels far too real to be any sort of hallucination or dream. Every detail will be seared into his mind. The feel of the unyielding wall. The throb of his split lip. The blood drying on his face. His shirt sticking to his back. Hannibal's weight and threat. The heat and sweat of lust. The scream of violence, the intensity of the sensation of Hannibal's dick splitting him open (which he knows it's not, but it's still not easy to bear).

Hannibal doesn't want him to squirm, not even to push back recklessly. The grip on his waist increases and Hannibal works harder to keep him pinned. Will gives up on moving. Apparently Hannibal wants him to remain removed and helpless and Will supposes that it's easier than trying to fight for any control. Eventually - finally - Hannibal's pelvis is flush to his skin and there's nothing more to be forced inside of him. Will feels shattered in the best way possible. Hannibal's body and hands are all that's keeping him together.

And shouldn't that be a frightening thought? Hannibal keeping him together, Hannibal holding him together... For a great deal of time Hannibal had wanted to peer inside his mind like an alluring crystal ball. Hannibal had attempted to physically get inside by way of a saw even... When do the scales balance out? Hannibal has hurt him and Hannibal has saved him. But had Hannibal saved him out of obsession? Out of selfishness? Will hadn't necessarily _wanted_ to be saved. 

But he wants this right now and so does Hannibal. It might not be the setting and scenario that Hannibal would prefer, but Will has never been overly interested in trying to cater to anyone's whims -- so why stop now? There's a short time where Hannibal doesn't move and Will battles through the sensation of fullness and ache. But Hannibal isn't looking to coddle him in this so it's sooner than later that Hannibal pulls back to carefully thrust back in. The next thrust is harder and Will feels raw. He scratches at the wall, uncaring if he ruins the paint or if his fingers bleed. Teeth are at his neck and Will remembers biting flesh, he remembers-- 

Hannibal's question is a damn taunt. Speaking in full sentences, like this is school.

He doesn't care. Will shudders as he tries to get his wits about him enough to answer. It may be a lost cause. 

"Yes, fucking yes, this is what I wanted, what I needed," he finally hisses out. He's unsure if this is pleasurable or painful, it feels like it's on the border between the two, but it's consuming and he's not lying. This _is_ what he needs.

* * *

At its very base, this is simply sex. They both are consenting adults, and as twisted a situation as this is, as life has _always_ been with the two of them involved, this is still sex. It's still desire and need, base urges. The connection in the mind between sex and violence is strong, a psychological concept, and they are merely proving the rule. 

Yet regardless of how much Hannibal wants to insist that this is the case, he knows the both of them enough to know that it's barely scratching the surface to call this _just_ sex. This is 'just' sex the way that a hurricane is 'just' rain. And as he feels Will's body clench and struggle to adjust around him, Hannibal's lips pull back in the faintest of snarls and he presses his teeth to Will's nape, a threat, or perhaps a point of grounding.

For there is no foundation to be found here. Not for Will, as there is certainly none for Hannibal. This may be what Hannibal had missed and what Will needs the most, but that doesn't mean that it's a foundation worthy of note. Hannibal can focus on the sensation, on the feeling of Will's body so tightly clenched around him, on the spasm of muscles under his hands and the feeling of the bruises tenderizing Will's skin. But that is merely focus, not drive, not a platform on which to stand, not a net set out to catch him if and when this inevitably fails.

Will's nails claw at the wall, sending paint chips raining down. Hannibal watches a few lodge under Will's nails, and it must hurt, but what use has Will of dwelling on pain when he knows that Hannibal will cup his hands in his own in under an hour and ensure the paint chips are taken away. Violence is easier than care, at least in this instance, and as Will's body twitches and clenches so invitingly, Hannibal cannot deny that the desire is real under his skin as well. This offers him no answers, offers _them_ no answers, but he'll take what he's been given.

Will's answer is like a hymn as he hisses it out, and it lodges like a blade under Hannibal's skin. He breathes out harshly through his nose and his teeth find Will's nape again, biting hard enough to bruise deeper, to punish or maybe to reward as he thrusts into Will's body, as he _takes_ what Will has so freely given him.

"If this were truly reciprocity, I would take what I needed from you," Hannibal grinds out hotly, teeth that have ripped out throats sliding over to tug sharply on Will's earlobe. His breath is hot as he shoves Will harder against the wall with his body, his angle changing slowly as he thrusts with shallow-but-quicker movements, ever aiming to find the spot that will make Will see stars, to see _him_. 

"But I won't. Not so selfishly." Hannibal's teeth bite down again, just below Will's ear, and this time Hannibal does taste blood, albeit a small drop. He snaps his hips in deep and sets up a slow roll and grind of his hips as one hand slides down and around, his fingers raking boldly through the hair below Will's navel, all the way to the velvet flesh beneath. He won't be the only one finding pleasure this evening, even if he has to force it from Will.

* * *

Is there absolution waiting for him after this? Will is doubtful. They'd had a blank slate after the fall and Will had smeared ash over it. The 'after' is for later. How could Will hope to even see the outline of what they will be? The lines they carefully walked around have been dashed, the rules obliterated. Whatever they had before - their twisted dynamic - has frayed by their feet. Are they sewing up the remains to form something new? Frayed threads now used as stitches. Hannibal had stitched him up and Hannibal will likely care for him after this, too. What a thought. To be hurt and cared for by the same man.

Paint and drywall dig under his fingernails, but the sensation of pain is muted in comparison to Hannibal ruthlessly pushing into him. It's a demanding intensity that takes Will higher, his mind feeling dissociated a little, but his body locked in. Will feels everything, his senses drowning in Hannibal. Hannibal bites hard at the back of his neck and Will flinches at the onslaught of pain flaring up. Hannibal fucks into him and Will wishes this would wreck him. He wishes this would somehow purge everything vile or twisted or cruel out of him. 

Hannibal speaks about reciprocity, teeth pinching at his earlobe and Will for an instant wonders if Hannibal will tear--

No. Hannibal shoves him against the wall harder. It's rough, but the angle and thrusts change somewhat. Hannibal claims to not plan on _taking_ and being selfish and irritation spikes. Isn't this supposed to be _Hannibal's_ turn? Repayment? Apparently not. 

Will is opening his mouth to protest (he thinks) when a ragged gasp comes out instead at a particular thrust that has him tensing and feeling both weak and wired. Then Hannibal's hand is on his half-soft dick and Will's eyes snap open. It's a complicated feeling, something familiar (a hand on his cock) mixing with something completely foreign (getting fucked). 

It's not his own hand either. It's Hannibal's. For a moment there is panic because Will hadn't expected it to be like this, but then it's extinguished. It's an almost jittery pleasure coursing along with the discomfort. It's more difficult to think, but why think when he can feel? 

"Hannibal..." His voice doesn't sound like his own. It's higher, stressed, thin. Hannibal strokes him and Will feels himself grow hard. He knows Hannibal is going to make sure he gets off too. "Wish I could hate you... But I don't. I love you. I fucking love you."

* * *

Is it cruel to revel in Will's panic? Perhaps. He can feel it when Hannibal touches flesh that Will hadn't expected him to touch. He can feel the way that Will tenses, in the way he freezes like Hannibal has just run a live wire through him. Protests and panic run like electricity under Will's skin and yet Hannibal doesn't relent, doesn't stop in his slow-yet-rough grind as his hand touches and strokes Will's cock, feeling it begin to harden in his hand. Were Hannibal a kind man, he'd stop, would allow Will the time to recollect himself, but neither of them are kind men. Were he kind, this would not have happened. Were _they_ kind, they would never have met one another.

Yet despite Hannibal's lack of care towards Will's panic, he doesn't actually wish Will to be an unwilling partner. And while panic might flare, it hardly takes any time at all for Hannibal to find the proper angle, and even Hannibal is left hissing his pleasure as Will's body clenches and twitches around him in its own flare of sensation. Hannibal's teeth rake over Will's shoulder, biting hard enough to feel but not to tear, and Hannibal traps Will against the wall as he strokes him, as his hips slowly grind, and as Will's body begins to respond. 

This is undoubtedly not something that Will had planned. He'd expected cruelty and selfishness, so of course that isn't what Hannibal allows. Each of his thrusts is a pointed grind, deep and rough, his cock dragging precisely over the small gland within Will's body like Hannibal wishes nothing more. His teeth bite, his hand strokes, and as Will exists, caught between all extremes, Hannibal takes his vicious pleasure in Will's alarm and his confusion and his pleasure. He _takes_ , but he takes _with_ Will.

And when Will speaks, when his voice finally breaks out of its confines, thin and high and reedy with unexpected pleasure and desperation, Hannibal feels his lip curl in a snarl, feels something akin to instinct pounding through his blood like violence. In the same breath he could tear another's throat out, he feels like he could wind himself through Will's body like a specter and make him scream. His own breathing is rough and punctuated as Will speaks, and yet while knowing that Will wishes to hate him is no surprise, hearing that Will _loves_ him--

Hannibal's teeth break the skin under them, biting the junction between Will's neck and shoulder in an act that can only be seen as reckless. The sound that Hannibal makes is wounded, for while he'd suspected, while the evidence had pointed to it, he's never actually _heard_ it said, and the truth of it rips through him like claws. He thrusts harder, unbidden, and it's likely too much, too hard, and yet he doesn't relent, doesn't stop stroking or biting or thrusting as he clutches Will so close that a part of Hannibal fears he might break him, or be broken in return.

* * *

Now isn't the time for a love confession. Will hadn't thought the words would slip out of his mouth. They're the truth though. Hannibal should know. Hannibal knows. He must. Only love and madness would allow them to endure as they have here and now. But Will has the feeling that Hannibal likely never _expected_ that he would be gifted the vocalization of such sentiment. Cliche words, but powerful nonetheless.

And Will doesn't know what's more jarring, the physical - the hand that's jerking him off relentlessly like Hannibal's thrusts - or the emotional rawness of having admitted something so damning, something so earth shattering. It's overwhelming. It's too much. Hannibal's cock grinds deep within him, sending frissons of intensity through him while Hannibal's hand strokes -- familiar and unfamiliar. Teeth bite and pain punctuates the whole moment, it adds a counterpoint to the pleasure.

Then the pressure of Hannibal's bite increases and for one terrible moment Will thinks Hannibal is going to try and tear out his throat so he could join a slain Dragon--

No. Hannibal bites and the skin breaks and Will bleeds. The sound Hannibal makes wrenches something within Will and it's like everything gets taken up a notch. It's an onslaught of sensation, of intensity and pleasure and pain and _Hannibal._ It's a violent but perfect intimacy, it dominates everything, changes him further, changes everything. Nothing will remain static. He's fucked, he's stroked, he's bitten and he's held. He's loved? Will doesn't know if he wants more or less, if he should draw near or cringe away, but right now he gets no choice.

Will shakes and tenses, he struggles in Hannibal's hold and when he comes it's torn out of him with no regard and Will has the distant thought that there may be tears on his face.

* * *

The world is a rush of blood under his tongue. Hannibal's thrusts are sharp, punctuated, the sound of skin slapping against skin so loud that it's a wonder there aren't already bruises forming on his hips, or against Will's skin. Tightness and heat and pleasure roar through his body, each nerve alight, but it is the knowledge that had caused this that still shakes him. Copper and salt and heat against his tongue mean nothing without the context, without Will's admission, for how could this moment mean _anything_ without Will? 

He needs violence. _They_ need violence. They are not the picturesque lovers, hands shyly intertwined as they stroll over the soft sands of a beach at sunset. They don't share secret whispers or smiles unless it is necessary for their public charade. They are both vicious creatures with blood wedged so far into their mouths and under their claws that there will be no getting rid of it, nor does Hannibal believe he wishes to as he drives his cock deep into Will's body, his thrusts nearly cruel as blood stains his teeth. It's a violent intimacy, intense and rending, and it is precisely what they need. 

What this means for the future is uncertain. Hannibal cannot predict it, nor does he wish to. His world has narrowed in on the heat, the tightness, and each beautifully-sobbed sound that Will lets out as Hannibal tears them both to ruin.

Salt mixes with blood on the air, and then Will is shaking, sobbing, and struggling. It's not for show; he wrenches and twists as if he's trying to escape but Hannibal merely holds him tighter, recognizing Will's need to be reckless as his body gears up for what it feels like it shouldn't have. And then, just as Hannibal snaps his hips in deep again, Will's body clenches and twitches and locks down around his cock, drawing a bloodied gasp from Hannibal's lips as they pull back in a half-snarl. 

Will's pleasure is violent enough that it steals Hannibal's breath away, and as he turns his face to press his cheek to the bite mark on Will's skin, warmth covers his hand as Will comes, painting Hannibal's hand and the wall with no regard.

With a tight, rougher sound, Hannibal releases Will's cock when he feels he can, and his hand grips Will's other hip. He _takes_ with an intensity that will hurt, but there had been an exquisite pain when Will had done this to him. He doesn't doubt that the same will be true here. 

Hannibal pushes and takes, his breathing harder, and he no longer tries to hold himself back. He grinds in deep, flush against Will's body, and when he comes, when his cock pulses deep in Will's body and fills him, Hannibal smells the blood against Will's skin and the mess of scents that encapsulate _them_. 

* * *

Sweat, blood, come and tears. Somehow it seems terribly appropriate that these are all present. Signs of exhaustion, indications of violence and pleasure perpetrated against him. Will hadn't wanted to orgasm, but Hannibal hadn't let that be an option. Will's dick throbs, his release spills wetly onto Hannibal's hand and likely the wall too. More mess, more evidence that this has happened. 

This... what is this? A violent, sexual altercation, another act of reciprocation between two men with oceans of complications and history between them. Where Hannibal has bitten him still aches, but it's dull compared to the feeling of Hannibal fucking into him.

It's not lovemaking. It's not sweet and it's not tender, but it doesn't need to be. Will doesn't want that. He doesn't need that. This is Hannibal's payback from what Will had given him the first time in his room. Will hadn't even been naked, but Hannibal had been. 

Right now, neither of them are naked. Neither of them had anticipated this after Will had stopped it from happening in the kitchen. Hannibal's hand leaves his cock and grips his hip and Hannibal thrusts roughly, the intensity bleeding into a spike of pain. Will shakes and he digs his nails into the wall, he scratches at the paint uncaring about the pain under his nails. Every point of contact feels simultaneously too close and not close enough. Will has the thought of Hannibal simply blending into him, that Hannibal could be smudged into his skin, a black smear that would not be so easily cleaned.

Will doesn't feel clean now. Sore and exhausted, his body still takes Hannibal as if he's thirsty for it. This is not rape, it feels like a purification perhaps. A cleanse. Even now, Will struggles in vain, his body pushing back as if wanting Hannibal off.

Hannibal doesn't relent. Hannibal doesn't stop. Hannibal continues until his own orgasm is reached and Will feels Hannibal still. Wetness fills him, but Will can barely feel it over it the sudden dulling of the loudness around him. 

Because suddenly it's not so loud and frenzied. It's not a fight to feel Hannibal contain him (because Hannibal simply _has_ him). Will stops struggling, he's still trembling slightly, breathing harshly and trying to calm down. He can feel his clothing sticking to him from the sweat, he's aware of the tears on his face, but he does nothing to wipe them away. He's sore, he's bruised. He blinks dazed, at a loss, but not lost.

"Thank you," Will says, his voice quiet and scratchy. It's all he can think of to say.

* * *

Hannibal cannot possibly know how this will change them, but he knows as pleasure carves through him like the blades he had so often honed, that this has irreversibly changed them. Perhaps the signs will not be blatant. Perhaps they will slide under their skin like an injection, giving only the barest hint of visible symptomatology, but there is no question that a change has occurred. Whether it is a tectonic shift or a gentle redirection is anyone's guess, as nothing can be certain when dealing with a man like Will Graham.

Pleasure pounds like blood through his veins as he buries himself deep in Will's body, his cock pulsing, his come hot, and his breathing ragged, but Hannibal doesn't stop. He stills briefly, and then his hips begin to lazily rock, not an apology, not even acknowledgement, but the subtle desire to not allow this to come to an end. For what is at the end of this path? A love confession for anyone else would be grounds for intimacy and soft whispers, but they are not normal men. Hannibal finds a safe compromise as he slowly, eventually comes to still himself, buried deep inside Will's body. He can scent blood and sweat and tears and come on the air and though his hands slide away from Will's hips, Hannibal does not pull out and abandon him there against the wall.

Instead, in the deafening silence that follows, Hannibal braces both of his arms against the wall beside Will's head, enclosing him in the small space as Hannibal presses up against his back. They both take time to recover. Will breathes raggedly, a tremor in his legs, his lungs seemingly endlessly hungry for air. Hannibal stands behind him, pressing close, using his legs and his hips to keep Will steady and standing as his lungs demand air. Yet air feels so inconsequential compared to what Will had said, and Hannibal silently struggles with them, feeling the words superimposed upon his mind as he buries his face in against Will's neck and breathes him in.

Will is no longer struggling. It's a distant thought in the back of Hannibal's mind, something low and pleased, like a quiet victory. They stay like that for some time, until Hannibal's limbs begin to feel heavy and leaden. He closes his eyes, his breathing slowly evening out, and Hannibal cannot dismiss the slightly-torn feeling within him. A part of him thinks about leaving, another thinks about being tender. A third simply wishes to stay, but there is no telling what change this will be. So he waits until Will speaks, and when Will _thanks_ him, Hannibal stills in quiet surprise. He hadn't been expecting that.

Hannibal finally draws away but only enough to speak. His voice is rough and real. "Violence can be cleansing. Thank _you_." Hannibal pauses just a moment, then adds, "come upstairs with me. I need to treat the bite to your shoulder." He doesn't sound apologetic.

* * *

They're close, Hannibal's cock still buried deep and his come pretty much marking Will (another claim?). Will feels tenderized. Raw. Changed, but unsure what he will look like after he pulls himself together, for surely he's in pieces by now. Crumbling and eroding, like the bluff. Will wonders if he'll be lost to Hannibal, if Hannibal will simply swallow him up whole like a great devourer. It doesn't feel like such a horrible fate and maybe that should worry Will.

He doesn't have any energy to direct toward such a concern. His heart continues to pump blood and his lungs continue to take in air. He's alive, he's survived Hannibal and himself, survived a dragon too. Will doesn't feel especially victorious. How could he? He's been brought this low, brought to a place where he could only surrender in violence, in having Hannibal treat him roughly, pushing him up against the wall and all but forcing him.

Hasn't there been enough hurt between them? Maybe not, because Will feels hurt now and he doubts Hannibal is feeling much better either. Maybe this is the game now. Cruelty, care, violence. Like Will, the pendulum swings. Is love enough? Love definitely is not all that they have. The want to hate Hannibal is still buried within Will, tangled deep in his heart like a bur. Love isn't a panacea. Love isn't a cure all. 

Hannibal leans on him, his face buried against his neck and Will feels and hears Hannibal breath him in. Will doesn't dare struggle to break away. He's aware of the aches within his body, both internal and external but pain is nothing new, especially in relation to Hannibal. 

Only when Hannibal pulls away, softening cock slipping out, does Hannibal speak. _Will_ is thanked and he doesn't have anything to say in response. But it doesn't seem like Hannibal needs one because he mentions treating the bite. Will just nods and with shaky hands he pulls up his boxers. He's aware that he's likely going to leak Hannibal's come, but whatever. He'll have another shower.

Will follows Hannibal, his movements a little stilted from soreness, but Hannibal doesn't coddle him or apologize. All in all, Will doesn't feel anywhere near wretched. A numb sort of acceptance seems to have settled over him.

* * *

With care, Hannibal steps back away from the wall, his muscles aching pleasantly, his body feeling light in ways it hasn't in some time. He walks to the counter in order to grab a cloth and he cleans himself up before tucking his cock back into his boxers and slacks. When he turns back to offer the same to Will, it's to the sight of Will's boxers already up and the man himself seeming to piece himself back together as best as he can. 

Hannibal watches, distance burning under his skin and yet also mingling with need and the lingering shock of Will's admission. There is no telling where they will go from here. There is no certainty left. Yet as Hannibal regards Will's movements and feels his sluggishness, he can at least reassure himself with the knowledge that Will isn't furious.

He seems tame, almost. Hannibal's unsure how that will affect them, unsure how it will affect Will's mind, but he's not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. Not yet.

Hannibal offers Will no coddling as he nods his satisfaction and then turns. Will's legs will feel as unsteady as Hannibal's, and while the ache and pain will linger, Hannibal had been able to walk after Will had taken him so forcibly. Hannibal won't assume that Will needs special treatment. Mercy is not often in Hannibal's repertoire. 

He leads the way upstairs, aware of Will following him, and as uncharted as these territories feel, there _is_ precedence here. After the Fall, Will had complied with Hannibal's medical expertise. This falls loosely under that same heading. 

Hannibal walks into the bathroom, retrieving the first aid kit. Instructing Will to strip down, Hannibal takes sterile wipes and, not bothering to warn Will about the discomfort (for he already knows) Hannibal sets about carefully cleaning the bite marks left behind. Hannibal had not been sparing with them, though the worst is deeper than he'd been aware of. With a low hum, almost contemplative, Hannibal presses the alcohol over it, encouraging it to bleed and be cleansed at once. 

"How do you feel, Will?"

* * *

Will isn't furious. He suspects that if he was, the anger would be directed at himself anyway. Being mad at Hannibal hasn't ever exactly panned out for him. If anything, Will's anger has gotten others caught in the crossfire and hurt (but who's around him now for Hannibal to hurt?). Will used to believe that Hannibal was incapable of change, incapable of bending or compromising. That was his belief _before._ But Hannibal has proved him wrong.

And yet Hannibal had taken him against the living room wall, demanding and relentless and unapologetic with his force. Will is sure there will be no apology forthcoming either and that's fine with him. Had Will said sorry for his treatment of Hannibal? He doesn't think so. He can't remember. But _sorry_ is just a word and it hardly matters. Words can be hissed out, barbed and cruel; they can be whispered with a honey tongue. Actions matter.

So Will follows Hannibal, a curious ache deep inside of him, his hips likely bruised and the bite on his shoulder throbbing. It's hardly the worst Will has endured. Despite what Will may be feeling or not feeling, he's not reckless enough to forgo first aid. This is almost reassuring in its familiarity. Will strips out of his shirt, letting it fall to the bathroom floor uncaring. Hannibal is practical -- almost clinical as he takes a wipe to his shoulder. Will does hiss at the slight burn, but he says nothing. His head hangs down, but Will doesn't feel weary. 

The question almost amuses him, for it somehow seems so blasé to ask such a simple thing after what had just transpired moments ago. 

"How I feel..." Will echoes back and he looks up at Hannibal, his eyebrows pinched slightly. Will considers the question. Hannibal gives him the time to think. "Alive," he finally answers. Will lifts his hand, his expression complicated as he brushes some of Hannibal's hair away from his forehead. "As you are, without the lingerie... It's ….fine with me."

* * *

It is a simple question and Hannibal expects nothing more than a simple answer. It's a bid to fill the silence, something to throw a wrench into the precedence of moments such as these. Before, Hannibal had not spoken aside from asking Will to move in certain ways or to do something for him. Inquiring about his pain level had been a numerical scale. Asking how Will _feels_ is something new, something to cast a shadow upon the way they had once acted, even while still in the confines. Perhaps, feeling light as he does, Hannibal is willing to push, to press, to encourage the bruise to deepen enough for him to see it. But that isn't what happens.

Instead, Will answers him, and Hannibal's hand briefly stills. _Alive_ is not the answer that he'd been expecting, though neither can he argue that it's not accurate. He looks down at Will, meeting his eyes, and he sees no deception there. He hadn't for the length of time it had taken Will to answer him, and he sees none now. It robs him of speech, and as Hannibal stands there, the wipe still on Will's shoulder, he remembers what Will had said downstairs, and the confession looms like a beast over them both. 

Yet despite Hannibal's bitterness, despite his lingering confusion from _before_ the altercation, not even he can remain perfectly stoic as Will reaches out and touches him. It's fleeting, almost familiar in how casual it is. While Hannibal doesn't lean fully into the touch, he does dip his head, allowing Will that moment if nothing else. He's not certain what else to do. And so when Will adds on what he does, Hannibal looks at him for a long moment, something complicated in his eyes.

Then he takes the alcoholic wipe away, reaches for the ointment and a pad of gauze, and he neatly applies everything, taping the gauze down with steady fingers. 

"Why the change of heart?" He asks finally, and while his tone is level, there's a crack in it, like a small fissure. Hannibal is not so unaffected. "Or... I suppose 'why show it to me' would be a more accurate question. Had you need of violence that badly? You enjoyed a kill not too long ago. Or is it another beast entirely when I am involved?"

* * *

What a whirlwind of a morning. From Hannibal surprising him with the lingerie, to Will challenging back, only to then reach some sort of breaking point. It still seems surreal that he'd gone to his knees, a foray into desperation and submission that had honestly frightened him. Will had told Hannibal to fuck him and Hannibal had begun taking the necessary steps with Will laid out on the table. Will had allowed Hannibal at his scar, that serpent tongue licking reverently across the raised edges. Will had encouraged it with his fingers buried in Hannibal's hair... They'd talked about being laid to ruin, but the pieces hadn't fit, that moment couldn't last and Will had backed out. Now that conversation seems miles away.

' _No more tests,_ ' Will had stated afterward and Hannibal had left. Hannibal had changed out of the lingerie and donned his armor - a suit - by Will's request. And then the spark had been lit, both of them antagonistic and no one holding their tongue. Will remembers Hannibal succinctly claiming that he's not really been present. That he's fractured, broken. A shade. Vacillating. And oh, it had burned through Will like shame, like bile crawling up his throat. 

And it's Will who's gotten them into this tangled, complicated mess. He'd wanted to see if Hannibal would dress the part of his wife. A test. Another push. And Hannibal hadn't backed down or broken. Will had only treated Hannibal warmly when he'd referred to Hannibal as his girl, as baby, as his wife. 

Will isn't a fool, he understands how that likely looks to Hannibal. It'd be logical to assume that he's only interested in Hannibal if Hannibal is in the lingerie, if there's that particular power dynamic between them -- the feminization. And Will isn't exactly ready to unpack everything, to turn a critical eye to his actions, but at the bare minimum, he needs to let Hannibal know that Hannibal as himself - as a man - is fine with him. 

Hannibal doesn't pull away when Will touches, a soft almost too-familiar gesture that borders on intimate. And after Will has said what needs to be said, Hannibal doesn't immediately reply. He patches Will up, treating the bite that will likely scar (bites that Will had taught lectures about). He likes the idea of another scar from Hannibal.

Hannibal's voice isn't as controlled and composed as he'd like -- Will is sure of it. The questions aren't surprising, but Will still scratches at his scruff for a thoughtful few seconds. 

"Maybe it's time to be more than corporeal," Will answers carefully, his hand coming to grasp Hannibal's wrist as if he's afraid that Hannibal may leave (or maybe he simply wants the contact). "I don't want to be broken. I don't want to swing like I have been... That's truly unsustainable."

* * *

Hannibal's voice is not raw, but nor is it firm. There's something entirely too careful in it, like he's aware of how brittle it would sound were he to allow himself to speak candidly. Will knows; he can see the shadow of understanding in Will's eyes. Once again, Will's perception is both blessing and curse. One look, one blink, and Hannibal still suspects that Will could see it all were he so inclined, and yet he won't. Not without asking Hannibal first. Not without some sort of warning. 

So Hannibal speaks. Will watches him, still touching, still calm, and then Will's hand drops to Hannibal's wrist, wrapping around it carefully. He touches like he wants to maintain connection and while a part of Hannibal wishes to draw away merely for a sort of self preservation, he does no such thing. He looks at Will candidly, and as Will speaks, his voice just as careful, understanding suffuses through Hannibal's chest.

Will doesn't wish to be shattered. He doesn't wish to be broken, like Hannibal had accused him of. He wishes to be fully-fleshed-out, to be _real_ again, and Hannibal's lips twist somewhat wryly in understanding. He has felt much the same way, trapped and pinned and stripped of his self, wary of upsetting the delicate balance that they had fallen into, that Will had insisted on. This... this is the first time that Will has spoken about the reality of this. About how unsustainable this is. How unsustainable _they_ are.

"So my violence broke your walls down, temporarily," he says quietly, turning his wrist in Will's palm so that Will's fingers press over his pulse. Hannibal steps closer, bringing them almost flush again. "Enough for you to become candid with yourself. You love me," Hannibal adds, saying it plainly, though there's a half-shattered warmth in his eyes when he says it, whether he wants to be so obvious or not. 

His own hand lifts, resting against Will's jaw, his thumb tracing the scar from the knife on the cliff. "Were you aware before?"

* * *

Hadn't Will said something similar all those years ago in the low light of Hannibal's office? Will had claimed that they weren't sustainable, that they would be caught. Initially Hannibal had proved him wrong, of course. Hannibal had slithered away, his victims left strewn on his property, discarded like mere afterthoughts. Jack. Alana. Abigail. Him. 

But in a twist of irony that only Hannibal Lecter could truly appreciate and conceive, Hannibal had let himself be caught, surrendering for Jack, hands raised, knees meeting the mud as guns pointed at him. Will doesn't like to think of that day. The grand gesture.

Hannibal hasn't led them astray here. Their deeds have gone unpunished. Will has no doubt that that will continue. They won't be caught. The officials won't even get close to them. No. Hannibal wouldn't allow it, not after such hard-fought battles to get Will here, for them to finally be together. As much as Hannibal may have a flair for the theatrics, he hadn't been exaggerating that Will has been _physically_ here, but has been a shade of himself. 

Will has swung this way and that way, being cool and withholding, playing as amiable newlyweds. Perhaps that could have been sustainable. They'd been doing it for months, after all. But once they'd become sexual, once that line had been crossed and Hannibal had went above and beyond by sliding into the role of a wife... That had complicated things. Alternating between reserved and distant to caring and warm, Hannibal taking scraps, Hannibal doing whatever for Will's favor. That's what's unsustainable. Will can't manage it. Hannibal can't manage it.

Will doesn't know if it's purely Hannibal's violence that has broken his walls down, but the _how_ doesn't matter. It's happened. Hannibal turns his hand and Will's fingertips graze over Hannibal's pulse point before Hannibal steps close. They're both disheveled, Will's boxers are sticking to him, there's come and lube leaking from him too. It hardly matters.

When Hannibal repeats his words - that Will loves him - Will's fingers curl, but his nails don't dig in hard. Hannibal is still dressed, just his sleeves rolled up. It's somehow strange to hear Hannibal say it so plainly. Will actually leans into the touch paid to his jaw, that scar mostly hidden by facial hair.Hannibal asks if he was aware _before_ and Will snorts lightly. 

"You may have been locked up and I may have been married and hiding, but I've never been free of you. Dreams, nightmares, hallucinations, letters... You're my very own phantom that I can't shake." Will uncurls his fingers and then lets a single finger trace up the vertical scar on Hannibal's wrist. "But now I don't have to."

* * *

Hannibal has suspected that Will has loved him, for months. Will has vacillated but he's always done so in more predictable patterns. Hannibal hadn't been lying when he'd made his grand claim earlier. When Will wants comfort, his sharp edges that so bitterly cut into Hannibal's skin suddenly dull. Will turns to him more often, seeks him out, touches him more boldly when they go out, stands closer to him. His words are not quite as caustic and he'll allow Hannibal the luxury of catering to him. Yet when Will's anger flares, when he either feels ashamed of himself for his needs or merely wishes to punish Hannibal, those dull edges sharpen again and he lashes out like a wild animal, vicious and cutting. He withholds his attention, restricts his care and favor, keeps himself distant while they're out. 

But Will would not be so wildly unpredictable without extenuating circumstances. Hannibal is anything but a fool. Perhaps he could cite guilt or anger as Will's motivation, but really, he's suspected a simple alternative for some time. What else but love would make Will so tentative in his need for comfort and so wildly cruel with his need for distance? To love the Chesapeake Ripper cannot be a simple task to come to terms with.

Yet that is what Will has claimed. It's what makes _sense_. Perhaps _sense_ is not romantic, and yes, Hannibal does wish the admission could have come from something softer, something freely given, not forced. Yet the words are no less sweeter due to the effort it had taken to wrench them from Will's heart. They are hard fought and Hannibal feels them with pride as Will's nails dig into his wrist. It's light, yet somehow the small act of hurt only feels fitting. Hannibal does not move his head, but his eyes flick up quickly to lock onto Will's, assessing him like the wild creature he has long been accused of being.

"You don't have to because you've admitted the impossible to yourself," Hannibal summarizes. The impossible: That Will is in love with a man like him. His gaze slides down to the touch that Will pays to his wrist. Hannibal clenches his hand, the pale scar standing out, and then arches his wrist, pressing Will's nails harder against the skin that stings at the contact. 

"I could assume much here. That you were ashamed of yourself. That you needed to know I was still capable of playing your game instead of allowing myself to be so willingly muzzled. That you were so afraid of what it meant to love a man who has done what I've done... Perhaps I've been your phantom, but so have you been mine. It's good to see _you_ again, Will. Not just the shade of you," Hannibal adds, his eyes glinting with the hint of a smile that doesn't need to touch his lips. 

* * *

Will doesn't love the Chesapeake Ripper. No, he loves Hannibal Lecter. The Ripper may have shoved him in Hannibal's orbit, but Hannibal is not the same man he'd been back in Baltimore. Hannibal is not playing those around him and tugging on strings for his own amusement. They do what they must to maintain appearances, but there will be no dinner parties here. Hannibal's criteria and whims are not considered in the equation of murder either. The Ripper is undoubtedly a part of Hannibal, but it's not the sum of Hannibal's parts. Hannibal is more than a notorious serial killer, more than the names slung around by the likes of Chilton or Freddie. _Nakama,_ Chiyoh had claimed, but could one word ever be enough? Will doesn't believe so.

Will's actions and inactions, his choices... They were either borne of madness or love. Possibly both at times. Even now, after everything, the word _love_ seems awkward to say and even consider in his mind. Before a cliff-side embrace and plunge, Will hadn't been able to come to terms with it _or_ them. Painting Hannibal as a monster had been simpler, and doesn't the world say monsters can't love?

Perhaps they're both monsters and only in each other do they find a home and acceptance. Will used to try and understand monsters, to recreate their thinking, to offer any and all insight that could lead Jack to the perpetrator. Will could likely turn his gaze on Hannibal and empathize with him, he could seek to unearth and understand, but Will has no desire to be invasive. Hannibal has remained by his side and proven himself committed no matter what challenges Will has issued him. 

Perhaps it's time to drop the games, to give up on tests. Hannibal is right: he has admitted the impossible. Hannibal's scar stands out - Will's by proxy - and Will doesn't stop touching, he doesn't break away from this point of contact. He's still sore and uncomfortable, still shaken up, but this moment is far more crucial to attend to. Will doesn't look away as Hannibal continues and offers a few pieces of food for thought. 

Each suggestion likely has some truth, but Will doesn't want to delve into it too deeply. Shame? Guilt? Fear? The tests? It all brought them here. And when Hannibal finishes and comments that it's good to see _him_ and not just a shade _,_ Will sees a spark of a smile in Hannibal's eyes. There's a lightness that hasn't been there for some time and Will likes it (he also thinks he might be mirroring the same back to Hannibal). 

"Then prove it," Will murmurs. "Kiss me."

* * *

For months, Will has been a shade. An actor embodying one role at one point and then another at a separate point. So rarely have the both of them met and solidified into something real, but Hannibal can recall when each has happened. When he'd been on his knees, Will's fingers in his hair, the moment before Will had requested silence. When Will had seen him in the lingerie. Yet most notably to Hannibal is still the day before that, when he'd found Will madly pacing like a caged animal. 

Those minutes, short as they had been, still haunt him with their uncertainty. Anger has always been a shelter for Will; Hannibal understands that. Yet even now Hannibal cannot properly explain what had happened that day beyond the fact that Will had believed that Hannibal had left him for good. In that visceral moment, Will had been real. Then his desperation had taken over, he'd adopted his shade, and Hannibal had been left with a fraction of him again.

Even now, with Will's nails digging into his wrist, Hannibal has to wonder how long this side of Will is going to last. Will it remain, or will he fade as his mind kicks back in? Is the knowledge of love and affection enough to withstand the variables that had led Will to his desperate need for control to begin with? Only time will tell.

But Hannibal does not wish to infect this moment with added suspicion. They both are hardly in the right here. Will's skin is flushed, his posture heavy with discomfort, and Hannibal can scent blood and lube and sweat and come like another layer on Will's skin. By contrast, Hannibal stands tall, hardly the haphazard picture that Will makes. For the first time in a long while, Hannibal looks like himself. Will has not monopolized the power and the difference is back in his own hands. 

Hannibal could use it. He could wrest it back as he had downstairs. Yet it has never been about _owning_ Will. Hannibal has no desire to collar him when he views Will his equal. Perhaps in time, Will might allow Hannibal the same.

Now doesn't matter, though. _now_ is not tomorrow or a week from now, or all the slights of the past. _Now_ is Will looking up at him with favor in his eyes, something softer and warmer, the smile that Hannibal feels within reflected back at him. _Now_ Will is issuing a command that Hannibal has no desire to ignore. And with that in mind, Hannibal strokes his thumb over Will's jaw again, over the half-hidden scar. 

Then he leans in, closing the distance between them. When his lips find Will's, there is none of the violence and anger from before. Hannibal kisses Will fully, without violence but without reservation just the same. It is a kiss of equals, Will's attire be damned. Perhaps their first. Hopefully the first of many.

* * *

Surely a real conversation is impending. It must be. They have much that they need to try and unpack, to look at and hopefully understand. Will doesn't know how or where to even start, however. He's tired of his mind. He doesn't want to poke around it, not even with Hannibal's guidance and direction. Will no longer possesses any concern that Hannibal is attempting to manipulate him. Hannibal seeks clarity within his mind, not dominion. Will doesn't even know if that brings any comfort to him. Probably not. The biggest blows have already been dealt, the scar tissue is thick.

This is another violent swing of the pendulum. Will's aware of how he's been before, snapping between cruelty and care, distance and proximity. Hannibal likely suspects him to rebound again at some point. Maybe Will does too. Before, control and stability had grounded him; they'd practically been a staple for him. Control over Hannibal, for if it was Will pulling the strings, every motion could be seen and prepared for -- anticipated.

Will hadn't been prepared for Hannibal. Will can remember his naivety, his misplaced trust, his desperation... He never wants to be that man again. He can't. He'd rather die. Thankfully, he doesn't think Hannibal wants him to be that man again either. Hannibal wants him as an equal... Will, though? Will doesn't exactly know what he wants and therein lies the problem. 

But Will doesn't ask for a kiss and he doesn't say please either. He tells Hannibal to kiss him and after a soft stroke of Hannibal's thumb against a half-hidden scar, Hannibal is leaning in and their lips touch. There's no anger this time, it's not a fight, but it isn't something soft or chaste either. Will's bottom lip is sore, it's cut open, but he kisses back. This morning has been a landslide and Will's not entirely sure if they've made it out unscathed. 

Perhaps there is a wound or wounds they will discover later. But that's for later. Now, Will kisses back and pays no mind to the discomfort inside or the various scrapes and bruises on his skin. When he pulls away, his mouth is open and he's panting as he leans his head forward and rests his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder. 

"I love you... I love you," he says hoarsely, repeating it as if trying to grow accustomed the size and shape of the words exiting his mouth.

* * *

It will take time for this new upheaval to settle into something solid. Nothing can be guaranteed right now. Hannibal isn't even certain what the next half hour will bring them, much less the next few months, or years. 'One day at a time' seems so trivial when faced with this sort of uncertainty. Hannibal only hopes that in time they will find their places. Hopefully with one another. Perhaps this really is the first step to get there.

As when Will returns Hannibal's kiss, it is not chaste, nor is it violent with anger or hunger. He kisses like it's something he wants, like it's something real. Hannibal tastes the tang of salt and metal, along with the faintest hint of something sour that is undoubtedly Will's body attempting to close the bite to his lips. Hannibal's tongue touches it, laps at it like it's a delicacy, and he sucks just enough to make the motion known but not enough to reopen the wound. And when Will draws back, Hannibal is half-expecting him to duck out, to step back and hide.

Instead Will steps in close, his forehead coming to rest against Hannibal's shoulder. Hannibal stills in surprise, not having expected it, but when he glances down at Will and _hears_ the words, something that feels hot and sharp in equal measure seems to stab through Hannibal's chest. He's silent for a moment, catching his own breath. Then, tentatively, he reaches up and winds his arms around Will's body. One hand comes to press carefully to the small of his back and the other buries fingers in his hair, gripping gently, just enough for a small tug.

Hannibal ducks his head, breathing in Will's scent - blood and pain and sweat and sex, but also the scent of grass and open sky and thick woods. 

"And I love you." The words are no secret. Not for either of them. Hannibal draws in a slower breath. "Would you allow me to draw you a bath, Will?"

* * *

Is there safety for Will now? A refuge instead of danger? Care instead of games? There have been no blades pulled on him here. Hannibal has been ever so patient and accommodating with him... Until this morning, that is. Will had both incited and invited the violence, he'd stoked the flames higher and delighted in the dancing shadows they cast. 

Will doesn't know how things are going to change going forward. There have always been question marks attached to Hannibal. When Will had grasped Hannibal's hand after Dolarhyde had been slain, he hadn't known what he was getting into. How could he? Even when he pulled them over the bluff's edge, Will hadn't been sure what would meet them -- damnation? Peace? An escape?

It's been none of those things. Will has no idea how to even quantify what it _has_ been let alone what it _could_ be and he doesn't know which is more frightening. Logic dictates that the unknown poses a greater threat, but the past can be ruinous too. Regret, guilt and bitterness are like barbed hooks just waiting to catch onto all-too-delicate flesh and Will has found himself often tangled up with all three. 

The past dictates that after an intimate and possibly vulnerable moment that Will rushes off. This time, however, he doesn't. Will lets himself exist with Hannibal. The words are easy to pronounce, easy to say, but difficult to feel. Still, Will says them, he repeats them like a mantra. If he can normalize the sentiment, if he can somehow come to find a semblance of peace within that truth, maybe there can be hope for them. All the discomforts and aches remain, but Hannibal holds him, one hand in his hair, the other on his low back and Will does feel a measure of relief slide in. 

Hannibal loves him. Hannibal tells him again. Even though Will is compromised, he can tell this is a struggle for Hannibal, that Hannibal is trying to rein himself in. The offer of a bath... Will can't help but snort softly given that a bath after Will's last kill had sent them tumbling. Will's eyes open, his forehead is still resting on Hannibal's shoulder. 

"A bath, huh? I remember how an innocent bath turned out last time, but I guess we can try again."

* * *

There is no telling what creature will emerge from the ashes of this evening. Will it be eldritch and cruel, with bared fangs for the both of them? A monster endlessly devouring itself out of famine and anger? Or will it be tentative and uncertain? A shaken foundation under their feet. Hannibal has no idea what the next day will bring. Try as he might to claim otherwise, his allowances these last few months have become routine. As proud a man as he is, it has been far more convenient to bend under Will's whims, to await his touch and presence. 

Even now, with Will's forehead resting so gently against his shoulder, something small - like a bird - beats its wings hopefully in Hannibal's chest. Contact feels like a gift instead of the touch of equals that it is. That will need to be dealt with if they are to move on.

The thought of closure, of growing from this point, feels daunting. They have been so long rent open. Disgust, tolerance, submission, need, anger, and now this? It is hardly the picture of a healthy relationship for either of them, and the lack of knowledge is frustrating. Yet as Hannibal feels Will's soft laugh, hears his leading words, something seems to fit better in his chest, like an old, worn piece of metal being reshaped to fit its mold. 

He cannot predict what their dynamic will become. But he _can_ show that he is not adverse to parts of what they had been. So Hannibal offers, and when Will answers, he merely nods and then slides his hand free of Will's hair. Hannibal strokes it once, more to show that he _can_ , and then he reluctantly steps away from Will. He will not reassure, no matter how pressing the desire. Will had wished him to push back, to reclaim, and that is what Hannibal intends. 

So he walks the few short steps to the bathtub and leans over, reaching out to turn on the water. He tests the stream under his hand until it heats sufficiently, then pushes the stopper to keep the water in the tub. It fills slowly, and as it does, Hannibal stands, reaches for a few bottles of essential oil, and adds the drops as necessary. 

When he turns back to Will, Hannibal lifts an eyebrow, prompting. He looks Will over once, as if still amazed that he remains. Then he nods. 

"The bandages would make a shower difficult. Plus, quite frankly, to my knowledge, you've never had anal sex before. You'll be feeling an ache in your muscles soon, and a bath will help ease some of that." 

* * *

Hannibal has drawn him baths before, but during the last endeavor Will had sought to push and issue a challenge that Hannibal had, surprisingly, accepted. It had been a pivotal moment for them, a catalyst that ushered in both change and a great amount of dysfunction. 

The question had been a simple one. Will had asked if Hannibal would get into the bath with him, clothes and all. It had been a taunt and it once it had been obeyed it practically lit a fire underneath Will. How far could he push Hannibal? How much control could he exert? Those had been dangerous questions for a mind like his. 

Will can't imagine that there's much that could happen that would shock either of them now. It's been days of testing and pushing and Will is honestly tired of it. He's uncertain how things will unfold going forward, but their old dynamic seems like it has been eaten through with rot. Maybe it's time to rip out the old foundation and replace it with something new, something longer-lasting. 

It doesn't feel so alien to have Hannibal touch him freely, fingers stroking through Will's hair softly. Maybe Will has been starving for this all along and he's allowed himself to binge on Hannibal, but it had to be on his own terms and that's... That's not healthy. It's not how he wants to be. So Will doesn't stop Hannibal from touching him and Will isn't cruel as Hannibal begins the process of running water and adding a few drops of oil. 

 

Hannibal turns and looks at him. Will has the feeling that it's like Hannibal is double checking that he's still here, that it's not a dream. But Hannibal is practical as he speaks mentioning Will's inexperience and how a bath should help. 

"I hadn't lied at the cafe," Will replies, thinking back to their dance around the topic over sandwiches weeks ago and where that had led to -- their first time fucking where Will had been selfish and rough. "I hadn't done anything like that before." 

Will slips out of boxers that are sweaty and sticky with come and Hannibal helps him into the bath, slipping down into the welcoming water. Will is tempted to submerge himself, but he doesn't go past the bandage. Still, it's delightful and has a groan easing out of Will's mouth. He takes a deep breath before gazing up at Hannibal. 

"I wanted to say I'm sorry... I don't like what I've done, but I don't regret it if it's brought us to this point now."

* * *

This is simple. As far as anything they have done, this feels the easiest even though Hannibal is quite aware that there is much beneath the surface that is being left unsaid and undone. He gazes down upon Will as he confirms that he hadn't lied in the cafe, and Hannibal nods. He ignores the small lick of tired heat that attempts to ignite within at the memory. The cafe had been quite the experience, and while the first time they had been intimate together _had_ been callous and uncaring, Hannibal cannot deny that there _is_ a part of him that had still enjoyed it. True, Will had been focused only on his own pleasure, and true, Hannibal had allowed himself to be used, but there exists a spark within that would do it again regardless. They are not so simple to classify, and tastes can run in all directions.

Hannibal watches as Will strips out of his remaining clothes. He offers Will a hand to brace himself and as Will steps toward the bath, Hannibal silently slips into his space and guides him down. He supports Will's sex-exhausted muscles as Will steps into the hot, soothing water, and Hannibal drinks down the resulting groan like it had been his touch to draw it from Will's lips. Hannibal watches Will as he settles, and though he had not been invited to join, after a moment Hannibal folds a small towel on the edge of the tub and takes a seat there. 

There's space between them for Will to find comfort in, and yet Hannibal does not withdraw the way he once would have. Instead, he's already reaching for a washcloth and a small bottle of lightly-scented soap to assist when Will speaks up. Hannibal goes tellingly still, and he blinks as he looks down at Will with subtle surprise. He cannot remember the last time that Will had genuinely apologized to him. Has he ever?

It takes Hannibal a moment to regain his thoughts. "We have both done much to one another. You need not apologize to me, Will. But if it clears your conscience, you're forgiven. Yet keep in mind that despite what you have done, I still choose to remain. You are not forcing my hand. You have not chained me to the floor to await your return. I stay of my own free will."

* * *

At one point, Will believed that he'd never offer up an apology to Hannibal. He'd thought the words would be more difficult to articulate, that they would taste bitter on his tongue and bring about anger and disgust within himself. 

But they don't. 

After everything, it hardly feels like this is the struggle that he's built up in his head. _Sorry_ is just a word, two syllables, but Will _does_ mean it. There is much to be sorry for, many behaviors and words that have been unfair and cruel. Will knows that Hannibal likely never expected him to apologize. It would be easier to ignore and attempt to turn a blind eye toward his abysmal behavior, but Will doesn't necessarily want the easy way out. Nothing has been easy with Hannibal, after all. Will has known this for quite some time. 

There is no invitation for Hannibal to stay, but there is the assumption that he will. He does and Will relaxes some. His apology has caught Hannibal off guard, but Hannibal doesn't show his surprise in any exaggerated definition of the word. As much as Will may feel the draw to turn his head and look away, he doesn't. Will listens and while it starts off lighter, it doesn't stay that way. 

Hannibal forgives him, yes, but Hannibal goes on to detail and clearly lay out that he's stayed of his own free will and that he's not being forced. Will says nothing and Hannibal takes it as cue to begin washing, dipping the cloth in the water, adding the soap and running it over Will's skin gently. It feels different than before, more poignant somehow.

"Before, outside against the car, I know you said you wouldn't leave," Will says. "But after - after I fucked you and you were gone the next morning, I lost it. I thought you had left. I thought you had finally had enough." 

* * *

The water is hot enough to soothe but not so hot enough as to burn. Hannibal feels it himself as he dips the cloth into the water to properly dampen it before he gently works it against itself to build up a lather. At his side, Will is quiet. He looks lost in thought and Hannibal is loath to interrupt him in his endeavor. Hannibal glances in Will's direction only once before taking his silence as a different type of allowance. He lathers up the cloth and then brings it to Will's skin.

Hannibal takes care as he washes the sweat from Will's skin, as the cloth passes slowly over the small scrapes and scratches left behind by their intensity downstairs. There is still no guarantee what this will mean for tomorrow. There is no knowing what this might mean eight months down the road, or eight years, but Hannibal is content in this moment to have what he has. He washes Will's back for him, and then moves around to his chest. His cloth has just barely touched Will's clavicle when his charge sees fit to speak and Hannibal glances at him again, his touch slowing but not stilling.

He listens, and as Will speaks, Hannibal remembers. He remembers the frenzied look that had been in Will's eyes, how Will had been more violent and desperate than Hannibal had ever seen him before. He remembers his own wariness, his own uncertainty, as Will had resembled a fox in a trap, desperate enough to gnaw his own limb off were it necessary. He doubts he's ever seen Will so blatant, so _real_ , and while Hannibal had suspected the reason, hearing it out loud does give him pause. 

Will had thought he'd gone. Will had assumed that he would be able to just walk out, to leave. Hannibal finally falls still, thoughtful. This cannot have been an easy statement on Will's part. It feels as though Will has invited him to be invasive, yet what need has Hannibal of that? Not now. Instead, though the words feel thick on his tongue, he offers up his own olive branch.

"I had felt it important to create distance that morning. I woke and felt... stretched thin. I did not wish you to wake and see me that way." In sub-drop, or as close as Hannibal has ever come to it. "Had I known the distress my actions caused, I would have stayed."

* * *

The words - the admission he's given - it honestly feel more difficult to articulate than the sentiment of love. Love is... Frightening. It is. Will's never been concerned with fanciful notions such as love. Until Hannibal. Because _losing_ that love? Having that fear gnawing at Will and knowing that if Hannibal had left, that it was entirely _his_ fault? That's another animal entirely and it's one Will doesn't know how to handle. It's a nightmare-beast he's wanted to not encounter. He's herded it away and into a cage. Now, though? Now, Will doesn't find denial and delusion that becoming. They can be laid to rest.

While Will has definitely felt something close to fear in relation to Hannibal, it had been in the past. Despite being years ago, it almost feels like another lifetime. Because in this new life, Hannibal had willingly allowed himself to bend and be collared. He'd ensured Will's comfort and safety. Had he ensured Will's sanity? Perhaps not, but they each had made their choices. 

That morning, however, Will had been far from settled . He'd felt out of control, the seams finally beginning to rip. Even when Hannibal had returned, concrete and _real_ and decidedly _not_ gone, Will had practically flown off the handle, pushing Hannibal against the wall and forcing a somewhat non-consensual blowjob on him. It would seem absurd if not for everything that had transpired _after_. 

The washcloth has stopped moving and Will could easily turn defensive. He could snap and tell Hannibal to not reply. He could order Hannibal to leave. 

But he's not sure Hannibal would even "obey." Will's fairly certain he doesn't _want_ Hannibal to obey anyway. Maybe Will is tired of the lack of genuine conversation. It's been months of surface level conversation. And Hannibal doesn't retreat or tip-toe around him when he replies. Instead, he explains himself and Will listens. He knows that it hadn't been Hannibal's intention to shake him up, but it's one of those many actions that had finally got them _here_. 

"You want to join me?" Will asks. This is his own offering. A re-do because weeks ago Will had dared Hannibal to get into the bath with his clothes on, but it hadn't been an invitation to be an equal, not even close. 

* * *

There _is_ a part of Hannibal that is expecting Will to withdraw. It's been months of the same song and dance, of denial and allowing the smallest rewards through only to to snatch them away once Will had thought it enough. Hannibal is no fool; he's aware of the cruelty. It has been a long few months of emotional and physical neglect, a form of malnutrition of the soul. 

Yet Will has long been spiraling, ever since the first daring allowance. The moment Will had ordered Hannibal into the bath with him, the precedent had changed, and Will's pendulum had begun to once again swing wildly. Hannibal isn't sure where it will one day come to rest - be it on the demand for Hannibal to take to his knees, or to dress up in silken finery, or on the desire to hand Hannibal the reins. Perhaps it will be something entirely new and different. 

But in this moment, Will allows him to speak. Perhaps there's a flicker of old habit, a desire to wrench his control back, to slide back into comfortable roles, but Will holds back. Hannibal isn't sure if he's impressed or relieved, but it makes it easier to speak candidly.

There is much to speak on. There is much to untangle. There is no guarantee that Will is going to feel the same way as this tomorrow, but he does now. Perhaps the pendulum will swing, but now Will is not the _only_ one in motion. 

Will's offer is only half-unexpected. It's impossible to forget the last time they had been like this with one another, yet the dynamic is vastly different. Hannibal is not existing on scraps, and Will is not clinging to his control so tightly that he's cutting off bloodflow to the rest of their life. Hannibal is quiet as he considers the offer, looking down at the warm water and Will's bare, flushed skin. Their first foray had ended with blood and semen in the water. It's fitting that all variables have stayed constant. 

"Yes," Hannibal says finally, though there's an edge of something more in his voice. "But whether I should is another matter. This morning has marked a violent shift in our dynamic. A broken limb will reform in whatever way it is allowed, even if it heals improperly. After everything we have become... I do not wish us to heal in a way that is not sustainable." Hannibal wets his lips and he finally moves the cloth up, curling it around Will's neck to brush against the line of his pulse. Despite Hannibal's words, his touch is gentle. 

"You crave control but you wish violence. You resent me as much as you love me. I still cannot predict where the last few days have come from, or the logic you used in instruction or denying me. This... will require conversation. Long, uncomfortable conversation, Will. Not now; neither of us are prepared. But it is necessary. Is that something you are willing to agree on?"

* * *

This may be new, but it's also equally unsettling and yet _right_. Change is often uncomfortable, but there is no way that Will - that _they_ \- could remain in the bizarre stagnant flux that they had been in. It doesn't seem feasible. So much has transpired in such a short time and it's likely a practical idea to be wary. Will is sure Hannibal is attempting to be cautious here. Perhaps this is a new frozen lake they're attempting to cross and each step comes with trepidation. Will doesn't want either of them to accidentally plunge through, for his many falls can they actually survive? (This is a question that he doesn't want to answer.)

He is sore, but it's another reminder that he's alive, that his body has endured and experienced both pain and pleasure _with_ Hannibal. Will doesn't regret it. It broke the demented cycle, it reset the clock, as it were.

Hannibal doesn't seem surprised by the offer. Hannibal does appear to be considering it, however. Weighing the risk, fighting between what the heart wants and the mind fights. They both remember how the first bath together had gone. It had been more of a challenge than anything, Will dangling bait and Hannibal hadn't let him down.

Will doesn't want that this time and although Hannibal may agree, Will can tell that Hannibal isn't done. Will listens, trying fiercely to not allow doubt and whatever else to bubble up. Hannibal talks about whether or not he _should_. But, in this, Hannibal is right. They must be careful going forward as to not heal in an unsustainable way. The last thing Will wants is more malfunction for them. They both deserve a break.

Hannibal wants to talk - not now - but later. 'Long, uncomfortable conversation' doesn't sound exactly nice by any means. That's actually what he's been trying to avoid for months, but Will knows that it's imperative for them. Will doesn't know where to begin - how to begin - but he figures they'll work at that together. After all, despite Hannibal's questionable methods, he's still a trained psychiatrist. Hannibal has a stake in actually providing help this time. 

"We'll need to talk," Will agrees. He frowns then, trying to find the words. After so long of keeping his thoughts to himself, this forthcoming honesty feels odd. "It's a tangled mess, but I'd like to work on it."

* * *

There are a thousand different ways that this could go, from the gentle and mundane to the murderous. A thousand different possibilities in the destructive hands of fate, a thousand different options and realities, all branching from each decision made. Hannibal has allowed himself to muse on these realities often. What would have happened had he not cut Will's stomach, what would have happened had he cut into Will's skull as he'd intended. Many possibilities and varying degrees of severity depending on the outcome. Yet this one somehow feels the most severe of all. 

This isn't a threat to cut into Will's skull, or a threat for Will to hire another man to kill him. This is simply them in their new life, rocky and tumultuous like the ocean that had rebirthed them. This is a violent clash of desires and wills having culminated into a mutual march onto ice barely a whisker's breadth. And this is their attempt to finally acknowledge that fall, to acknowledge what they've done and to potentially make a plan to go back to shore. 

Will could either agree to take Hannibal's offered hand, or slam his foot down into the ice to shatter it and plunge them both to their deaths. Hannibal is not so blind so as to assume that Will metaphorically taking his hand _now_ would be a guarantee for the future. Yet it would be a start. It would be acknowledgement, and as Hannibal looks at Will now, watches the complicated twist of emotion flicker behind his eyes, he watches and waits.

So when Will finally replies, when he voices his thoughts, Hannibal hears them and they translate into a tentative, open palm in his mind's eye. Hannibal listens, and though Will's voice is quiet and unsure, Hannibal cannot help the small glimmer of something light in his chest. It might be a small allowance, but it's something. It's a beginning if nothing else. It's more than they've had.

He reaches down, his fingers sliding through Will's hair. It's a slow gesture, something just shy of fond. "When we are both able to see through the shroud this day has brought, we can decide on how we might speak with one another. For now... relax. Allow me to do this for you."

* * *

There is a petulant side within Will that wants to scramble to be offended or feel rejection that Hannibal hasn't gotten in the bath with him. Before, he'd lash out or push Hannibal away if Hannibal had done something to displease him. Now? Now, Will's not entirely certain that Hannibal _would_ even listen to him. It's not exactly a startling realization, it just _is_. It exists. Like they are currently in this tentative detente of sorts.

Another tea cup has fallen and there can be no going back to stop it. Neither one of them is going to their knees to try to gather up the broken pieces and fix it. It can't be fixed. The damage is done, the crack is there. It's visible and there can be no hiding it. Funny how their scars have formed, their outsides healed, skin has pulled itself together, and yet so much feels _broken_ now. 

_Vulnerability_. It's a single word, just one word, and yet it feels daunting. It feels like a brand upon him. It's searing, an uncomfortable ache of a realization that he is going to need to bear himself to Hannibal. Openness, connection, being present and genuine... These are things Will has staunchly kept from Hannibal, but that needs to change. It's _going_ to change. It has to. Will's under no delusion that he's likely going to fuck up and back pedal at some point; Hannibal is likely preparing for it even. 

Wet fingers stroke through Will's hair and Will feels a curious thread of relaxation spark. He listens... Hannibal wants to do this _for_ him. Last time Will hadn't exactly _let_ Hannibal because he'd issued his challenge shortly after. Maybe instead of them both having a bath, _this_ is actually what they need. Maybe Will needs to allow Hannibal's care, to be receptive to it, and maybe, just maybe, Hannibal needs to be allowed to show care. 

Will closes his eyes and his head leans back into the touch. He seems peaceful, a smile almost curling onto his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Like the story? Please support us and consider reblogging on tumblr [here](http://merrythought.tumblr.com/post/179948591698) or leaving a comment/kudo ♥


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